by Laurie Razor
Reflections on the off litter of late.
Unopposed they blindly roam these old stone roads to nowhere,
praying they'll arrive long before all the roaches fly back home.
None realizing that their tender spines are sprouting new wings,
so that they too may migrate far to strange yet familiar shores.
The wary, and the wise explore the vast untamed city-jungles,
climbing high concrete trees, and brick-and-mortar mountains,
up beyond where the clear smoke chokes the poor cloud-folk,
but most slide back down when they first breathe the impure air.
Sages sit, and fools they dawdle all around similar mud-puddles,
there are those who trudge through, and those who sink in deep,
but that's neither here, nor there, nor anywhere, we're nobody else,
and why should we so strive to differentiate ourselves any further?
We're only us, there's us alone. We are both fool, and sage,
wary, and wise. Roach, mud-puddle, concrete, and cloud-folk.
Most of all though I am me, they are them, and you are you,
conjoined in our shared uniqueness, the helpless hopeful.