kites fly
and there is little
volunteerism
in this small soup kitchen
on lois lane
and apathy

sorted and sordid
my steam has
been misdirected,
passion melted
out of shape like
Dali’s Timex

I reach for
the ripcord one
yes, one more time
flushing out the
safety net I know
like my own smile

the other cheek
sings a familiar Byrds song
ever the season
a tired, sly wink is
issued… too tired for tears
hope is rote

© Tom Watters  1/10/07