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coffee at pig bones

January 5, 2012

Watched Howl last night, which inspired me to write a poem this morning instead of the usual political rant. Thought I’d share it here for the hell of it.

“Coffee at Pig Bones”

Sitting at Pig Bones
alone, in the brisk, winter afternoon.
Coffee to my right,
Dostoyevsky lurking around somewhere in my bag
resting comfortably in the other chair.
Stabby makes an occasional appearance from the back,
chatting up the customers
and intimidating them
with her tattoos and handsome features.
Short, black hair
matching her black, button-up shirt.
Less goth and more post-punk culinary, if you can imagine that.
Thoughts turn to daggers
like the tattoos on her arm,
piercing through the melancholy of the moment
and into the unknown future.
Hope and fear, love and loss;
life is such a holy and tragic thing.
Souls forming and taking shape,
like Fiddler Crab larvae
carried upon the currents of choices,
and circumstances beyond their control.
Washed far out to sea
to sink or swim,
or be eaten;
the lucky ones being washed back into shore.
Sometimes I feel like a leaf
caught in the wake
of souls bigger and more important than I.
I rise and fall
and am pushed aside by their passing.
Always in a hurry
with no place to go.
But at least they’ll get there on time.


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