Thursday, November 14, 2013

The Worm Curls

The curb spackled with pigeon shit
Pollock, Dubuffet splotches
encrusted in the sun like
tide-forsaken barnacles
white and green and gray

They wait above
strung along the high tension wires
Bobbing, twitching
Dark against the sky

I sit in a chair close to the wall,
thinking I’m safely out of range
but not really certain
Aware of the danger
but unwilling to move

Brave or stubborn
Prepared to accept whatever gifts
the universe may choose
to shower upon me
I secretly hope to remain
deserving of nothing 

No comments:

Post a Comment