Category: Poetry
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I am the bearer of low-hanging fruit In my presence, others succumb To their indifference
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Where is the treasure that needs protection? Is it hiding in plain sight like a well-placed lie? Maybe if I put a hand over one eye…
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Your child’s kidnapper Will be found in a trailer at the end of A two-track road in one of these bergs And will show up to court in a wheelchair Saying he was paying for caregiver services
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He’s the Doc with the office at the top of the stairs Damn ol’ grouch, he doesn’t even care If he’s the one who’s hobbling, infirm or lame To the cruel old stairs, we’re all the same
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Sunday wears makeup, Tacky and shining Like an eclipse Describing cleansing But deflecting Everyone’s hiding
