The Specialist

A Poem by Soil Creep

Admissions

It's time for a song to quell the uneasiness, that scurrying suspicion lying on its side gasping and grasping and grappling for the oddity. Eventually something will float by careless and inflated to chuck stones at seamus the wailer. I can't say what will become of him but I can tell you he didn't die in vain. I can belie the indigenous alcoholism subconsciously like a rational toaster of cotton balls. I can hold him accountable for slopping about the physiognomy through the thick fog. Beams blinking through as if she had any capacity for this kind of thing anyway

with the hatchet in the trunk,

with the shovel in the ground,

It's not surprising that I cannot

Tear up.

Please be seated for the slappy crow and persnickety the cow.