Holes
I have holes in me like moth eaten clothing
the clay my body is made of could sure use some molding
the issues on my brain could definitely use some folding
I want to finally settle the case and
put my brief case away somewhere safe.
But were always carrying stuff.
Heavy purses like camels carrying water.
Our sustenance is inside and
we can never fully sort them.
Too many quarters searching for
telephone booths but a lot of
them are out of order.
Cigarettes in our mouths
not enough smoke coming back out.
eventually we are on the ground
scurrying around like a NYC mouse.
Searching for the cheese
whether it's Swiss, Canadian or American.
And by the end of this poem my clothes
are almost Freddie sliced. My holes have grown.
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