“FRUITLESS YEARS”

Tripping down stone roads,
toward nowhere I’ve known,
I am happiest.
Some see my skinned knees,
my twisted stride, or just my face—
and they say I don’t look like myself.
I ask them, “why would I want to?”
There is no reply.

I hide beneath the carpets, behind
the drapes, in front of balconies,
always falling backward into place.

Tripping down stone roads,
toward nowhere I’ve known,
I am happiest. Is that so bad?

Fruitless years,
spent drying on the vine.
The best of me
is aged in barrels,
gulped by the uninspired—
and dashed over salad.

narrative poem written on 02-13-2011 by: on mattkane.com
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