If the future is a bird headed for a summit too far away to tell:

This entry is part 16 of 18 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Summer 2013

If for every word I lay down, someone else throws two soda pop tops up in the air where they glisten, false metal hard in the sun; and the crowd says oooh.

If somewhere a hand snaps a cloth around the mouth, tightens a blindfold, tucks the glistening, form-fitting spandex around the body, checks the buckles of its expensive shoes.

If the moth trembles in the eaves, it is for every story lived that someone else appropriates: reconstitutes with plastic, fiberfill; turns into amuse-bouches.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← <em>The wren in the lilac cycles through its songs at breakneck speed—</em>Urgency →

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