“One man gathers what another man spills,” So they say, yet no one is at my feet with sponge in hand. Why the faceless vultures with round belly and Crooked wing do they never perch in the puddle of unwanted Things I so generously let drip from the crack in my soul? Like the close of so many lives Mine too will be spent gathering what is mine Delicately folding self in the pure waste of time.
Umbriate Press Poetry 