The life I lead
suspends, it runneth over 
my eyebrims
to splash
poems on the page
 — the roof, too, leaks: 
above shoe-level
in the halfway house 
standing live (yet
so still)
in the electric storm
 — cornered rats
hunch defiant as busts
on the shelf — beggars, 
even, have doorways
and hoboes ride 
southbound trains, too fast 
for lightning conductors.
 — Have I not, then, 
 stopped living
for the morrow?

If you liked what you just read, consider giving it a heart so someone else might bump into it. Follow the author or Misplaced Identity below to see more posts like this one.

Also Facebook.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.