It happens all the time:
a bad seed cracks
but never sprouts;
a failed hatchling remains
curled and rotten
long after shattering
his shroud;
and a man
at a counter wolfing
eggs and bacon,
staring ahead with red eyes,
thinks he is the same.
He chews meat and swallows toast
and sucks down coffee, cigarettes,
booze, smoke,
suffering,
curled in a wretched ball.
He would love for someone to bronze him
and make him into a trophy.
Maybe it will happen
next Saturday night.
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Tags: poems, poetry, meditations, age
Dark Matter 
September 19th, 2010 at 11:46 pm
“He would love for someone to bronze him and make him into a trophy”
AH! So good.
September 19th, 2010 at 11:50 pm
Thanks. Just trimmed some of the fat from this one. I like this version far better.