|
Little
Devils
The little
devils of history
come out
at night to
jab their
tiny pitchforks
into the
sleeping eyes
of the
world's leaders.
My
Angels
whip out
of cars at high speeds
and take
to the air
with their
cigarette-wrapper wings.
A First
Morning
Stepping
down the gray
carpeted
stairs—eyes
like dust
bunnies—
she couldn't
guess what
a comforting
snow
was falling
outside.
Both
Ends
My life
stands up
and walks
away
from the
park bench
where
I remain
sitting
the way
my life
once sat.
My life
heads past
the oak
and pond,
past the
playground,
past the
diamond;
it whistles
a tune
I used
to know
when I
was five
and mostly
whole.
My life
keeps on
its invisible
path
like some
raccoon
oblivious
to the fact
I won't
sit here long
where
nothing sat.
Copyright © Scott Keeney, 2007
Next poet
|