Random Acts of Poetry

Random Acts of Poetry

Mr. Spungarn's Complaint

For a long time,
each ensuing day
held something of the same loss,
that slow burning

of wreckage better buried.
He doesn't do well in extremes,
armed with his useless bludgeons,
his razed expectations.

He still keeps the bones in a box,
grudges that can't be dissolved,
not in the acetic acid
of each half-final night.

It's spring now: such mockery.
The fragrance of cut grass
and a tree's sawed limbs
offends him.

"This is your legacy," says he.
"I keep thinking,
while holding a breath,
of those adamant blades."
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