Getting Out of the Queen City In Crisis
At home, on Amazon, hibernating from pestilence and logic,
I searched for happiness in contrivances, wastes, and textiles.
No game, but hunting. I watched my only life sunk
into a Broyhill sofa, sometimes hunkering, sometimes sprawled,
anesthesia. When animated, my mind traveled like intelligence, careful,
over pasturages and badlands, that minute, and once upon a time.
Then there's this small pensive cry: Look up,
there are rafters that hold the roof in perfect wedlock.
I am husband enough to enjoy my sorrow. I broke the ground,
sowed seeds on how to move on from terrors.
It took a davit to boost me up, but I arrived,
one frozen limb at a time. Before my renewal,
every day, early morning, the birds would come and ridicule me
through the clear glass windows, blackbirds
because it was cold. And in my state, I watched a crow,
loud-mouthed, telling me I can't, then she laughed
with that throat-thing she does so well. I gazed
into her cruel soul through a red eye, blazing like eternal fire.
She beat a bug pitilessly on dogwood, broke its spirit
as she thought of pounding me, but fly away blaspheming.
I prayed to God and got up to lie down only when I'm tired
of work and life. Now, the sun stays longer in these parts,
and I'm seeing more of life and perhaps death.
She's a gal I'm espoused to for a prolonged waiting.
Copyright © Francis Brown | Year Posted 2020
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