Tiny tufts of binder paper speckle the ground like bread
crumbs leading to the bulging trash bin.
A blotched tattoo on the outside of the right pinkie,
signal lines filled in and out, a writers stamp.
That far away look is not a place others may go.
Declawed and domesticated, the body observes
and stalks the other.
Taking it all in scraps left over much too much,
nauseated, not needing much more
than nibbles found inside spiral ring cages,
scratches to self, all
half-fulfilled by my stunted scepter.
Thinking there was more than enough time
to put the ending first, to do the editing in trim tufts,
to say this is my home, this is lace, this belongs
and this is sewn to hold more
meaning,
to say here is a poem
and poof, it is flown away.
Image By Anonymous [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Image By Anonymous [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
