It is nice here
waiting,
tucked in shadow
where foam cups collect, and
kudzu shrouds the tree.
Just beyond the shade,
glass shards shine like stars
in a blacktop sky.

I study my hand:
14 skin puckers,
little brown specks,
slender bones
curling like tentacles
on the shifter.
I draw Lazy Bones
in dashboard dust.
A wee red spider falls
from the frame,
twirls on a glisten.

I am a drowsy point
caught
between departure
and arrival:
love
solitude,
doing
and being.

Lazybones, layin in the shade…
how you gonna get your cornmeal made?
- L. Armstrong

09/01/2007

Author's Note: Dullard.

Posted on 09/02/2007
Copyright © 2026 David Hill