shoes thrown in
a functioning machine. . .

the gears all stall,
lace, skin, and heels
catch up in every cog. . .

And, over time,
they rust quite green.

I feel inept,

of all my health
and wealth and smarts
a grand crestfall,
so many times,
and now
it’s happened once again. . .

Some crook
home sweet den.

I know not how to live just right
and rise above this chronic plight. . .

I feel it’s near enough to drive
me to a meager, puny life
where I borrow, beg or rob,

A deep despair
grown out from there. . .
the gremlins enter
curled gray matter.

I want to block them
with a silver-plated platter,
but all of this
is useless specter chatter–

the demon outside saboteur
is but a sinister mirage. . .

repeated plots
tie plans in knots. . .

the perpetrator’s
not some scheming infiltrator,

but lives in warmth
by my own radiator,
in the house
by my garage–

I must search,
and face the mirror
to find the burgle vandal master
who pulled off
this beauty of an inside job. . .

A shock, for sure,
but in the wake
of a good
regrouping break,
I feel
my feet back on the ground
and brain restored
to work just great
with much less sound–

My hands
at last
feel amply ready
to delve more deep
than I’ve yet tried,

and clear those gears
of all the shoes
left stuck inside,

and add the oil
that they each need,
to turn far, near, low, high
deep, wide,

to return me to
my unique work,
play, rest
and stride–

once I have quit
the timid, sad, and angry habit
where I e’er
behind a broken,
shoe-choked gadget
used to hide.

This entry was posted in Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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