Saturday, January 18, 2014


There’s a kid on my block
Living ever so slowly
In his ditch of a home
A sandy, disregarded fairy wood
I walk by as slow as him
He’s young
Bushy, chirpy, but with already
Dull eyes, dull as my
Crumbling picket fence
And he takes care of his grandmother
Who is white-eyed,
Who always smiles and
She slowly rots
As slowly as he lives,
And I walk.
She never knew him
And never will
I see him on the bus smiling
In the very back with his torn up
He is so oddly calm
And his bright green tie of feathers
His hands are feathers.
No one notices him—
His unsecured presence,
Untethered to the small words
They throw around.
He gets on, gets off
Hardly a movement, like a
Star’s migration
There it is, it is so static
But where has it gone after
I’ve looked away?


1 comment:

  1. The poem was jarring but I think I got the general gist of it. Love the insightful idea about the feathers!