"When I'm old, call me withered, call me a toad,
regretful."
More Perihelion:
Bob Sward's Writer's Friendship Series
A quick list to poets featured in this issue:
Red Plastic Cup
My body's shadow flows over the asphalt
stiff with structured musculature.
Cars jerk forward; sun silvers chrome bumpers.
atop which the world stands with gymnast muscles.
sun silvers chrome bumpers. My body slips
able to be anything I want,
jerking forward, silvered by the sun.
like water in my cupped hands draining out.
As if, were I able to be any thing,
I'd be a red plastic cup, the world
When I'm old, call me withered, call me a toad,
regretful. Prod the folds of my turkeyed
neck with a rod, shaking wall-cast shadows.
I watch my shadow flow over asphalt.
I'd like to hold water in my cupped hands,
to become a small red plastic cup
When I'm old, call me withered, call me failed,
poke my turkey neck with a stick to shake
shadows on the wall. The cars jerk forward,
over the asphalt. The liquid slip
of water draining from my cupped hands:
this moment, this pleasure. As if I were
to be called withered & regretted; certain
of the finality of ugliness,
the sun-hot mockery of the cars
If it rains, I will walk home, as long
as there is sun, my body will be shadow.
Shadows collect in this red plastic cup
_______________________________________________________________