Ruminations from the Gutter
Let us dwell upon
that solemn stick creature
with deep holes for eyes.
Whom thunders about merry streets
Distressed for none to greet
Withered thin with a wistful mind
& hopeful heart of buzzing flies.
Is he bound to this pitiful fate?
To lay low & idle
as a drunkenly tossed single from a pair?
As a forlorn flower left beside the vase
wherein the other blooms wild
amid the dying odor of his quiet despair?
As a man alive, lowered in the dirt
cheap casket, clawing at the splintered wood
for only the hope of breath of air?
Is he forgotten by this starry world
to be left straggling & blown
by the hurried winds of an infinite Universe?
To be bound, tied and shackled
pre-determined to exist as a tired bundle for the fire?
As a perfect specimen for the roaring, public pyre?
To be found wishing from the sinistral apex
of the holy gutter
for one pair of merciful angel eyes
to fix upon his thunderous,
crestfallen poet's stare?