Country Cemetery
The dust didn’t follow,
It rose, sputtering in a fit of road rage
And hung in the pale
Of a dying light.
Side of the road
Along an ancient fence
Holding ghosts and memories at bay,
She placed a flower, plastic and bright
And paid a kind of silent homage
But life is hard
And there are meals to cook and children to bathe.
The Plymouth roared and kicked at the dust again
Returning from whence it came
The dust didn’t follow,
It rose, sputtering in a fit of road rage
And hung in the pale
Of a dying light.
Side of the road
Along an ancient fence
Holding ghosts and memories at bay,
She placed a flower, plastic and bright
And paid a kind of silent homage
But life is hard
And there are meals to cook and children to bathe.
The Plymouth roared and kicked at the dust again
Returning from whence it came
Cricket Box
It’s not unlike -
Grasping for that last fry in the bottom of the bag
Or searching blind through a purse for the front door keys.
But they scamper to the top
And cling to the wire with scratchy legs.
Terror driven to escape
The five fingers of death,
Facing a slow odd progression of an insect rapture
As they disappear
One by one
It’s not unlike -
Grasping for that last fry in the bottom of the bag
Or searching blind through a purse for the front door keys.
But they scamper to the top
And cling to the wire with scratchy legs.
Terror driven to escape
The five fingers of death,
Facing a slow odd progression of an insect rapture
As they disappear
One by one
Walkin Around Suit
Torn and worn at the knees and elbows
From too much genuflection
And too much head holding in hands
Wrinkled beyond hope in all the wrong places,
The seat now threadbare and shiny
Pulling at the seams of the crotch
- still gaping and straining to hold it together.
It was never beautiful, never form fitting
Nor cut by a tailor’s hand to an athlete’s build,
Just another walkin around suit ready for the thrift store.
No more a part of me
Than the skin on a sausage bursting with juices
As I sizzle and spit in the grease.
Torn and worn at the knees and elbows
From too much genuflection
And too much head holding in hands
Wrinkled beyond hope in all the wrong places,
The seat now threadbare and shiny
Pulling at the seams of the crotch
- still gaping and straining to hold it together.
It was never beautiful, never form fitting
Nor cut by a tailor’s hand to an athlete’s build,
Just another walkin around suit ready for the thrift store.
No more a part of me
Than the skin on a sausage bursting with juices
As I sizzle and spit in the grease.