spirit

if i were stoic
i wouldn’t write these poems.
content in the now.

i want to be free.
tired of the trickling dry stream.
my share just a dream.

the man is whittling
his fingers downs to small stubs.
all for retirement.

people are seasons.
some are warm and others cold.
most are seasonal.

the heel of the boot
grinds to dust all detritus.
uncompromising.

on the black chiclets
my fingers dancing macabre.
playing god with men.