![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Jun. 11th, 2023 08:15 pmThe Rattle of Oarlocks
There is something between full and empty
yet not quite or ever half-full or half-empty as if humpty-dumpty by his own riddle might know.
Spinning circles in an old orange kapok vest endlessly -- in a still pond that makes no sound cooler and quieter than its water drenched skin while missing the man with the old fishing hat
* * *
More than you could shake a stick at
There could be a place, or more properly a time, where the neighbor boy lives in that odd half-siding, half-brick tract house on the turn. His name is Jeff (although Jane would work equally well). He always wears horizontally-striped cotton tee-shirts that perfectly complement his lightly freckled-face. He has scars but they certainly aren't scars of abuse. Rather they are scars of hope, dreams and attainment - born of dam-building rocks, plywood bicycle ramps and tree-house constructions. His scruffy dog is old and has old-dog breath but it doesn't matter. Scruff still sleeps under the bed every night - just inside where the chenille bedspread drapes the love-scrawled and carved foot-board. Everyday is summer and early is nine am. - in those brief moments as the concrete of the street lets its hidden steam go from a sun that insists on drying the morning into day. It isn't an alarm clock that rangles. Instead it is the scented tumble of the dryer and the sound of a sliding milk-truck door. Week-old jeans and canvas All-Stars (Like the Conversed wings of Mercury) properly worn and broken-in await next to the best bark-smoothed walking stick money couldn't buy.
There is something between full and empty
yet not quite or ever half-full or half-empty as if humpty-dumpty by his own riddle might know.
Spinning circles in an old orange kapok vest endlessly -- in a still pond that makes no sound cooler and quieter than its water drenched skin while missing the man with the old fishing hat
* * *
More than you could shake a stick at
There could be a place, or more properly a time, where the neighbor boy lives in that odd half-siding, half-brick tract house on the turn. His name is Jeff (although Jane would work equally well). He always wears horizontally-striped cotton tee-shirts that perfectly complement his lightly freckled-face. He has scars but they certainly aren't scars of abuse. Rather they are scars of hope, dreams and attainment - born of dam-building rocks, plywood bicycle ramps and tree-house constructions. His scruffy dog is old and has old-dog breath but it doesn't matter. Scruff still sleeps under the bed every night - just inside where the chenille bedspread drapes the love-scrawled and carved foot-board. Everyday is summer and early is nine am. - in those brief moments as the concrete of the street lets its hidden steam go from a sun that insists on drying the morning into day. It isn't an alarm clock that rangles. Instead it is the scented tumble of the dryer and the sound of a sliding milk-truck door. Week-old jeans and canvas All-Stars (Like the Conversed wings of Mercury) properly worn and broken-in await next to the best bark-smoothed walking stick money couldn't buy.
