Copyright 2011 Gordon Kuhn

Poet in the Rain

Sometimes I wonder on thoughts, like old things left in drawers.

Left out of sight. Left out of daylight. Forgot.

Socks with holes, missing a brother, or should that be sister?

Does any of it count?

Do words that race across paper, searching white space to be free

From being trapped in a mind restless birthing

Voices in search of the free.

Does that part of my life, a Mustang, born to run yet kept now from the sun,

does it matter to anyone other than me?

Or, in the end, will it be like flotsam upon the wind tossed sea?

Should I start now to take up the count and struggle to mount

The captured held in my soul and somehow set it all free?

Or, should I just leave it, as dust on the table?

I wonder, please tell me, can someone, will someone come and wipe it away?

Can they wipe up the tears, and collect up hidden fears,

What of the joys, and, yes, hidden ploys?

When the human is replaced with a body of ash and dropped in the sea?

Will they take up a sack filled with garbage waiting for the trash man,

Placed by the curb without looking to see what it contains.

Will they, in the end, know what they’ve done?

When they come and take it away?

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