Wednesday 3/25/2009 12:02:00 AM

White dogs on the sniff. Collars taut. Leashes short. Everyday we would wake up in the soil and search for the seeds with dirty shovels. And too little rain to make anything grow.

We'd envy the big flowers. And the tall grass. Pondering how well it had negotiated with gravity.

We toted around our heavy watering cans. That would bang against our hips as we walked. We'd bend down and stare the ground. And it was almost impossible to stand back up.

White tire marks on the black pavement. Absent-minded brakes. Every window was open. All ghosts were distracted. The pageant was almost over. And she knew she hadn't won.

But she was tired of wearing borrowed gowns. She was bored with the plebeian algebra of touch. Goading the fractions. Moving the decimal. Closer to the skin. Further from the purpose.

But it's only a dream. And I can wake up. Whenever I want to.

It would all be gone. Except for the nails in my arms. And the hammers in their fists.

0 comments:


| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2016. All Rights Reserved.