Pissant

I see light bent in gray rain
& wonder at the angle of moisture
slanting from heaven to strike
gleaming blacktop on the road
that glides to everywhere

a worm that winds out the green
climbing past the flatland where
owls nest wise in cypress trees
& sunrise bleeds purple through
arthritic old gnarls

I think of songs of grandeur
of words that fall from the tongue
in simple rhythm sweet to the ear
tales of illusions we live & believe

but I come to understand that
it is not your land or my land
it is the land of the
sun & the moon
fire & wind
snake rain & magic night
a twist of earth
too grand for man
a cage meant to be free
of the bird
a ball built only to
hold quiet &
the season's cloak

I realize suddenly
that I am not some grand
master of the world i see
but only a pissant
dabbling in the sugar bowl
of eternity
too frail to count
wasting all my days
hiding from the
Orkin Man



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