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Lori Hurst Poem
Inside worn and weathered walls,
Nobles and commoners
Gather and share
In the field of rosiness.
Together, they are
Composed, well organized.
Each one partaking in blind optimism.
Knowing truly, that
The odds prevail.
Uneasy
My eyes penetrate
The bleached and waxen folds
Of my buttoned-up, grown-up gown.
Cascading, suffocating
The pale, coarse mesh
Chafes and bites my skin.
Two perfectly fitted pearls
Glow and twitch
As I stand rooted,
Unwavering.
The train, ready for action,
Playfully courts the dusty stone.
And I rehearse and cling to
The delicate sensibility that
“I am doing the right thing.”
“I am doing the right thing.”
Anxiety flourishes and
Doubt ripens under my tender care.
The thick fruit thrives
After months of incubation.
Nimble fingered, truth
Is busy, eagerly
Fusing and wiring herself to my soul.
Driven, she hails my attention.
Waving,
She wiggles her little fingers at me
And with a barbed and knowing glare,
She pleads with me from afar.
Willfully, I repeat my mantra.
“I am doing the right thing.”
“I am doing the right thing.”
Faithfully,
The rancid chorus begins.
I flinch, and flaunt my hollow smile.
The train sways,
Excited for life.
Breathless
I stand anchored,
Clutching a condemned bouquet.
I survey the waiting rabble.
Scowls, scrutiny, scorns.
Dusty brittle hair,
Spectacles and flowery hats,
Moving back and forth
In unison.
A mutual nod of disapproval.
The gasps and murmurs
Trickle and ooze
Through the blurry layers
Of the jaw dropped gapers.
I can see him now,
Green eyes searching
Wild with fear.
My paper coat unravels,
He sees me.
He knows.
Praying, holding on,
He pushes forward.
Crunching, crinkling underfoot
Painfully,
Pressing onward.
He is just within reach.
Shaking,
I touch my fingers to my lips
And
I turn
And walk away.
Joyfully she whispers
“You are doing the right thing!”
“You are doing the right thing!”
Copyright © Lori Hurst | Year Posted 2015
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