two poems . . .

Author

I am writing a new chapter
in my life. I will not give it
a grand title or begin
with a wise old epigraph. No,
only a number. Three I think.

Every step is a word,
every breath a comma,
every thought a parenthesis.

The story bleeds out
at my feet when I walk
these syntactical streets.
Gray, grammatical buildings
structure these sentences.

And every moment I worry
if I've not mistakenly woven
a stumbling series of weak metaphors.

**************************************

Savior

A scarecrow in a cornfield at dusk,
hat cocked back to betray
a sagging, hairless head of hay.
Poor thing, basically a beaten bag,
arms spread, pinned at the shoulders, wrists,
hung dumbly like a limp, muted messiah.