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suzanne-wilson-regaliaPoems
We queue up like indentured servants grateful as ripe fruit for the opportunity to bend our back in an eternal question asking how few grains how few beans how few drops do I need to survive in a world that fits like the abandoned sweater of the world's tallest man We line up like Hoovervillites eager as dogs for the opportunity to plunge our paws into scalding pots of wondering how many coins how many beds how many children must I offer to subsist in a world that spins out of reach like the apples of the world's tallest tree We row up rank and file like slaves servile as a Christmas and Easter parishioner's lips slathering for the opportunity to kiss the papal ring imagining how many hours how many loves how many lives will be lost to languish in a world that ossifies like Gluttony's cast off carcasses left by the world's fattest corporate cat We queue up like indentured servants dolorous as dying vines from the bonds and bridles that bend our back in an eternal question asking how few grains how few beans how few drops will I have left    after they've taken the sweater    after they've taken the apple    after they've taken the scraps in a world that fits like the abandoned sweater of the world's tallest man
0
Jul 27, 2011
Jul 27, 2011 at 3:36 PM UTC
Golden Gaits
We queue up like indentured servants grateful as ripe fruit for the opportunity to bend our back in an eternal question asking how few grains how few beans how few drops do I need to survive in a world that fits like the abandoned sweater of the world's tallest man We line up like Hoovervillites eager as dogs for the opportunity to plunge our paws into scalding pots of wondering how many coins how many beds how many children must I offer to subsist in a world that spins out of reach like the apples of the world's tallest tree We row up rank and file like slaves servile as a Christmas and Easter parishioner's lips slathering for the opportunity to kiss the papal ring imagining how many hours how many loves how many lives will be lost to languish in a world that ossifies like Gluttony's cast off carcasses left by the world's fattest corporate cat We queue up like indentured servants dolorous as dying vines from the bonds and bridles that bend our back in an eternal question asking how few grains how few beans how few drops will I have left    after they've taken the sweater    after they've taken the apple    after they've taken the scraps in a world that fits like the abandoned sweater of the world's tallest man
Written by
suzanne-wilson-regalia
American
Jul 27, 2011
Jul 27, 2011 at 3:36 PM UTC
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