I know it's not like people don't know.
But do they know the soul,
the man, the tears, the fright of lightening?
That job is done and no more,
And then a call to work.
Someone hunts for you or pretends to glance,
look at the next opportune paycheck,
a timely reminder of the cursed rush hour.
But I fear not,
though they know not me,
work or no.
But God, the man of creation.
Are we not all creative,
wiling away hours, fixing.
Paint by numbers, a reflection.
Next, we'll see how far this project.
Then we'll fly you to the Ozarks,
where hospitalization is free.
© 2012 Larry Ingram
Welcome to the poetry web site of Larry Ingram. Larry is a poet, writer and observer of our culture.