Penniless At the Tollgate
PENNILESS AT THE TOLLGATE
Wish I had a cat,
or maybe just a friend.
Mother says it's not the end,
but it is.
Reflections in the mirror,
inspections of the interior.
She's gone, I'm wrong,
and the soul can be so empty.
The milk is sour in the sink.
To wish, to think,
over the horizon the sun peeks,
the Blackbird rumbles then it roars.
A morning breeze or maybe the flap of wings
rustles the curtains.
Yes, it's certain.
The sky is not mine, it never was.
Hubris atop the Big Fish, a mighty serpent,
leaping over the waves, and the mermaids too,
thinking I saddled Old Screw.
I'm in the dirt, and it should hurt.
But I am empty, planted none too deep,
feeling little, a carrot or radish,
ready to be reaped.
A man without a spirit I am, I fear it.
A friend would be fine.
A cat? Just divine.
It would help pass the time 'til the end,
'til the end of mine.
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