Past muddy derrick and steaming sump, there is poetry.

You see it in the wind, ringing the rigging: a tall brass bell, its tragic
lines hunched in the callused hands of a lone Parisian. You feel it
tousle your grease-salted locks; its inky fingers wrap you, beating
your heart, swelling your centre. You hear it in the well practised
cursing of the toolpush: a strange language of a far land, redolent
with palm, spice, and sand-skinned natives, their slick lemon eyes
glittering in the sun.

Like Death, the sour gas stings your nostrils and steals your breath.
Your waking dreams melt, like a clock on the wall, like wax wings in
sunlight. The ground screams up at you all diesel rainbows, spinning
jewels, and bitterness.

Now no one will know
how rich and dark and primal
was your poet soul.

02/22/2009

Author's Note: This poem tied for first place in the UCW Winter contest.

Posted on 02/23/2009
Copyright © 2024 D. James McKee