Paper Tigers

…

This poem has no re
-morse code, no regrets.
It does not wish it wasn’t,
or want
to be something else, even
as it trips over its own un
-iambic feet.

It’s complete in its im
-perfections, its imp
-ossibilities, its ability
to just
……………..be.

This poem has crossed
lines and sung off key;
it’s tangled with talons
and claws. It’s cawed
itself a murder or two,
then flown
the coop.

It’s got no shame
at having no name,
and no place to live
when it rolls up its
kerned streets.

It’s got no stripes
to heal, no feelings
about politics, or
love, or death, or
time. It might rhyme.
It might not. It’s
not caught up
in the details of
its own small fails
or its lack.

Some day, it will simply
fade
……..to
…………black,
……………..without ever
……looking
back.

 

 

 

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