Poem: Granite

 

Granite

 

a crow,

with the aplomb

of a pachinko,

bumped through branches,

 

to wonder if any bird

had ever hit the jackpot,

if leaves could leap 

out of 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.

though stones goggled

while the decayed fought

for a good spot,

 

proving they weren’t fools,

 

by jockeying for position,

hobbled though they were,

in the downward gnaw of the deepening damp,

 

long disobliged by wind,

now sluggish of fate.

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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