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.

written on 02/14/2011 by: Matt Kane