Patchwork

Patchwork

A stripping down of walls,

Bricks and Bone and Blood;

hitting for the sunlight wasted

betting on unrealistic expectations,

off-stepping through THAT door.

There may be freedom

in the flesh,

but the willingness is fleeting,

bravery is reserved for 

pinafores and aviator sunglasses,

walking miles in shoes

found at the last curb-stop,

the only pair owned.

Tobacco warms

as much as burns,

and the “Yield” sign

makes for a subordinate friend.

If there were such a thing.

Morning wine;

a celebration of anarchy

in the middle of grey sunrise,

the beating of some exotic moth’s wings.

A brief pause gone

and never mentioned,

someone left behind,

the other side

missing.

And it’s time to light

another heater,

and it’s time for another

drink of plum.

Patchwork the wall revisited,

the only reality left.