Poem: Granite

 

Granite

 

a crow,

with the aplomb

of a pachinko,

bumped its way through branches,

 

to wonder if any bird

had ever hit the jackpot,

if heaven could fly upward 

out of husk, quill and bone.

 

death, no doubt 

preferred to throng the ground.

from possum thighs

to ichneumon wings,

 and everything in-between,

 

not much granite

among the carcasses.

although stones goggled,

epoch after epoch,

while the decaying 

layered in their spots,

 

so many countless dead things

jockeying for position,

hobbled though they were,

by the downward gnaw of the deepening damp,

 

long disobliged, as they were, by wind,

sluggish with fate.

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6/21/24 ... mods

"granite" = tombstones

Knee out, no $ for a doctor, pain.  Still I have it better than hundreds of millions of people, who unfairly and brutally suffer the worst on this vicious miracle of a planet.  I made it to 60, somehow, at least.  I'll keep going as long as I can.

"Life is so sorry a thing that death is a delightful refuge for the weary" -- Herodotus