WHEN I GREW TIRED
When I grew tired, I just rolled down my socks
and took a snooze. I sat on a Walpurgis rock at the
side of the Elan-Clanne River. I knew each Winnipeg
frog for miles around, and they too were playing with
sticks. And stones will break my bones, but names will
never hurt me. Knowing this, I watch the sky for signs.
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Discovering waterlogged caves is always a fine
adventure - just watching for signs of animals or
sleeping things to not awake. Stalagmites and
stalactites, what a thing to differentiate by words.
Science and Geology, bundled in my carpetbag.
I grab for the wall - slimy, wet, and black.
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Two weeks later, I'm back in some stupid big city,
watching stockbrokers chase stock, claim their gains
and count their losses, prognosticate their energies
about what's to come; Dow this and that, the Nasdaq's
new record, a blip or a bump. What rubbish I hear.
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