I smile at the smell of chicken shit
And hear him say 'we're almost home'
As I fight the force and weight of day.
A single streak of golden ink has
Seen us all in some strange evolution
Of blue and red and two kinds of silver,
While whitewashed walls just over the ditch
Have somehow contained a creature
So easily stirred by the pitch
Of horns and humming wheels.
Pull out this piece of mundane earth
And call it constant, unmoving while
I have moved, too busy to notice it,
Most likely going over the speed limit.
No comments:
Post a Comment