and the pile of perfect
sits there
mounting
it's requirements
expecting
in its air of expectancy
the imagined porcelian
is always cracked
shatters and breaks
upon first inspection
perfection is for dreams
and can't withstand the real air
of language
of oxygen
of human sight
and so i step over it
around it
like the dog poop on the path
it is a pile i'd rather not step in
and wish the one who left it
would bend to scoop it up
neatly depositing it
in the specified
containers
don't get your pefect on me
i don't want to bring it in
on my shoes
1 comment:
wow! you're not a wannabe poet. you really are. the images are crisp and delicate, like stepping on a lettuce patch. you write beautifully.
noel bave
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