Short Gangling Poems

Slate clouds stretch low
over urban rooftops,
sun’s hopeful warmth
vanquished:

	man with a limp
	pauses.
	his weary eyes,
	wary,
	survey that sky,
	grimy gangling
	fingers
	fidget
	buttons,
	wind biting through
	plaid jacket’s
	worn fabric;
	on, he hobbles
	behind
	shopping cart,
	cluttered and dull,
	left front wheel
	shimmying,

sere, dun leaves
and discarded wrappers
tumble, rustle
alongside
in the gutter....

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The sun-bleached exoskeletons 
of old dead trees stand like sentries
along the towpath riverfront
exfoliated and gangling.
In a former age they stood tall,
grandiose to all passerby’s
but they too are dead to recall
their once impressive colossi.
Eventually these remains
will meet their final destinies:
to fall-never to rise again-
among forgotten progenies;
yet many springs have passed since then 
each sprouted trees, time and again....

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