Thursday, November 13, 2014

Walden Claude

Claude teeters on the brink 
staring with bovine eyes
at the yellow froth 
that dries like a fried-egg crust
at the edge of the pool. 
Claude toes the crud
with his black, clumsy sole 
Wrinkles his nose
A little ways out floats 
a waterlogged plank.
It’s been there a while 
and its worm-pale skin
is no doubt soft and slimy. 
Claude scans the mud
for a stone to throw 
-discovers none.
There’s absolutely nothing 
of interest at all
along this bank. 
There’s just  the pond of sour water
coated with a film of dull green scum.
There are no birds, no frogs, 
not even any bugs.
Not a single mite or dragonfly 
dares to sip this sludge.
Claude looks around, 
then gets down on his haunches
and touches the tip of his tongue
to the surface of the water, 
takes a single lap
but it’s enough. 
Claude is now the pond,
placid, stagnant, shallow. 
Completely opaque and clothed in funk
with a plank where his heart should be.

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