Monday, February 29, 2016


Willow tree, and birch. Everything together.
The moonlight calls the whippoorwill back;
but I hear neither. I am blind to this life and
deaf to those things. It is midnight before the
four horsemen arrive. I think that I must find
a mate, and get out of here alive.
A cold man is still allowed a warm dream?
Or is that no longer right? I walk the crested
hills of this old, sorry place, just thinking back 
on the things I might have done. Didn't do, 
but would again. I once spent thirty dollars
on a send-away offer for tools. And thought
I was a millionaire by doing so. What a
fool's errand I entered.
So many years later, I'm still here and that
card remains yet in my hand. I trowel on the
grease in the separate hanging of dreams.
Those with whom I've spoken today, they
really didn't hold my interest, but I stayed.
The sales guy from the nursery, always
looking about. The girl with the hardtack
hands who carried bales. The guy who had
just shaved off a very long beard, going on
and on about his skin, and how it felt.
I chose to reply to nothing, just stay instead
and listen. No one knows what I'm about and,
like me in theirs, they're just extras in my play.

1 comment:

Martin Kloess said...

Good job on this thank you