“the next”

Like the last
wilting dandelion
to survive the rain storm,
I am still hanging on—
waiting for the young kid
to come stumbling along.
It is here that I am plucked
up
and held against the sun.
He will take his deepest breath
and he will blow me
hard
across the sidewalk,
where the parts of me
too heavy
will slide beneath gutters—
but others still,
will float long and bright;
Searching out a reasonable place
I might allow
one slow line
to descend
from whatever seeds
I carried with me
on my way
to whatever
this place implies
to the curiosity seeker
who bothers to turn another page
after the next.

narrative poem written on 10-22-2010 by: on mattkane.com
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