Nobody Knows Whose

For as long as we’ve been
off our all fours
keyed but not opened
friction holds the door
from loosely revealing
the inside mechanisms
which turn less to more.

A man who is an animal
with talking lungs lists
the advantages of thumbs
folded up into fists
soft as gold nuggets
with three silverado
watches on his wrists.

Child unlike mother
will never get sleepy
away like a bent penny
toss the flaccid cliche
the hem left fraying her
allure into hinterlands
as every drama replays.

Ball of preparations
bounces so purposefully
off the main stage
a woman nocturnally
hunting commitments
sees her edges slip into
unscripted outrage.

In the graveyard
a girl with a dad with
a kite with a tail that is
longer than she is reads
names with her finger
her father’s dreams flying
high before hitting hard.

Part way through cycling
around the bend of a year’s
horn-rimmed and gilded
seasons the whole family
sits down for dinner at
a long table in a long house
nobody knows whose.


About mrsorenson

NOT my president
This entry was posted in poem, poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s