CONSCIOUS STALL
.
Under the willow tree I hide my mirror,
small enough to be mistaken for morning dew.
I look for a point of origin, something to explain how and why
we all must see it through.”
.
Encased in impasse,
I couldn’t even eye other passengers
Past my papers.
I wouldn’t watch what
My window offered:
Small towns, & all their lights,
Reflections, inside, of us riding passersby.
We keep on sweeping by.
.
I patch my reflective papers.
Inspecting these all, aspects of my work,
Taking stock, as this stall is a lock still.
I, Y’see, yesterday’s night
I ran nine yellow lights,
& Just as there were dares that didn’t time out right,
I’ll just decide, to still ride
.
.
.
the sublime opening verse is from my favorite online poet
Allison Grayhurst, from “Eating From An Imaginary Spoon” https://wordpress.com/read/feeds/168535/posts/1567304886
