Poetry / Hodge-Podge (Analysis)
How quickly,
my children
do our past selves
come home
to roost
rather like chickens
We are reflections
of how and when
and who and how
Playing
Marmalade-sticky
shell games
of those who
have no shells
Once I robbed
the talents
of those
who have no shells.
Those who play
the game deliberately
have deliberately
burned their bridges.
I notice the
intonation changes
the pauses and
the inherent discomfort
of being true
Neurosis
merely fear
of the expected
unexpected
expectations.
It occurs to me
I am not known carnally
by half the people
who say they know me.
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