In my family
Madness runs, in
some it walks and
others merely
tiptoes. We can all see
where it gallops
or trickles out
like thick maple syrup
from a tipped over jar.
I’m blessed with a kiss
of it and not its full
blown embrace like
brother’s opposite poles
or sister’s obessions
or aunt’s hand wring
or grandmother’s sorrow
and so on, just the manic
rush toward alarm
that my wife helps me
disarm with a dozen
deep breaths