by Steve Michaels

as hand's, they
are not heroes
merely clutchyclaws
rife with daily
tests of durability
hammered into wiseass walls
and clenched in the grip of
an unlucky paratrooper grasping
furtively at each passing cloud.

I've never been to heaven
imagine it as the staticky
toss of rice to pan found between
television channels
loud enough to block the noise
of the gossipy file clerks
organizing my mind and,
empty - a fresh washed glass
echoing the sentiments
that splash as they fill
to rim

But light grows dim as clouds
conspire Sun's coup de grace
quenching fire and hailing
sweet moon as she enters the room
smelling of perfume and sour milk.
And would that I could click
the light - slow this death
waltz into night and spare myself
imminent gloom, relieve myself
with comforting room.


Posted on 02/15/2012
Copyright © 2024 Steve Michaels

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