Ripe
Elastic
On the pavement,
Soon to be sprayed down.
He stands sideways in his trench coat
Distorted in the horizon
Looking in a peculiar way, upward
And in a moment, onward calling
In the direction of a gravel walk.
A red smoke stack pipe rises
Out of a jigsaw sky.
Abstraction, soon to diminish
As words most often are, between desires.
Defining a sentence of a few weeks
And expressing himself in disgust
To the world, to a puff of smoke.
As quiet as the cancer itself.
© 1981 Sonja J. Phinney
Saturday, March 12, 2005
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