Monday, August 14, 2006

The Wanderer, At Home
A return, in improptu doggerel 

The sand is gone from tween his toes.
His tan begins to flake.
About the sterile house he goes
shedding sunlight in his wake.

His garden bloomed while he was gone.
It sports a hundred blooms unknown.
Each, like the lawn, is overgrown,
too tall to hold weight of its own.

And so he lies, like these bright flowers,
on shaded concrete steps, and waits
for hours, for the coming Fall,
And dirties the house with his plates.

posted by boyhowdy | 12:28 PM |

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Comments:

ew. flakey tan. never took you as crusty 'til now..

# posted by  Shaw Israel Izikson : 1:24 AM, August 15, 2006

 

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