Patterns

On legs all wobbly and loose,
this table holds forth the half-baked plans
The epilogue is a shame faced red
for the silence in the story
And the motions are of a steel-toed boot
kicking the shit up slowly and dutifully
Churning in silence, biting your lip,
waiting for the turn
The New Season
I’ve got a name and a place,
maybe shame within grace
It’s flowing out of outstretched arms
It’s welling up in a twitch
A gasp that speaks in stoicism,
of tension drenched in cynicism,
bubble-wrapped layers of protection
Cargo dripping with death of supplantation,
out of its element
When things go awry
it’s there waiting outside the door
in conference with its quashed thoughts
Under the table it lies,
ghosts of the dead moments
expressed in an activity report,
quietly brewing up a new plan
to move this spike from the table to the grave
The new code
50