dragging along
my hewn logs of
collected 
bones.
groggy eyelids
blink themselves,
like slaps to
the face--
as the tiny reflective
shorts of
some
running fool
circumnavigates 
me
with the requisite 
haughtiness--
silly bones,
how can you
trust
crosswalks,
and the scraping
hooves
of taxicabs,
snorting with ridden
rage,
behind the
weathered planks 
of red light-
fences?

        

© 2005 Ryan Bird

Ryan Bird is a soulless author seeking likeminded consumers. He calls both Toronto, and his lovely wife Jillian, home. He also lives with the maximum number of pets allowed by law. This season his poems will appear in Another Toronto Quarterly, Poetic Hours and Opium Magazine.

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