Tainted Lung


There is assorted indifference to what maybe inevitable.

It has always been this way…since the broken buildings have come into view.

With tainted lung plunged deep in my throat.

Without a heart upon my sleeve,

if so, a lie for all to believe.

I am the absconded wind on winter leaf.

An adult child, too old, born too late, for a deficit disorder.

A crumpled political banner, looking for a yard.

Like a New Hampshire storm, I fall for love of disposable beings…

And, the arrest is inevitably, hard.

There is comfort in another year’s comfort.

Covered bridges and mountain spring faucets.

Or, of a lone worn chair in the forest.

Places where ravaged thoughts can take a rest.