Rolls and rolls of steel, crunching sand, salt or
errant mists of dust, wafting the brittle caverns,
concrete scarred, clamoring for attention,
although decrepit laborers linger throughout.
Place your feet in these, these containers for
rifling through life, stratus spheric statements
while panting up the path, worn but silent
for neighbors dissing friendly exercise, blues
and whites fight over sun, sky, moon darkness.
A daylight of suspicion, of numerous looks,
some kind, some cautious, many taking odds
with rational footwork, the most sensible of
trainers stating the obvious way to tire of
hearing, listening - and of working the body.
It's a well known fact that the path of least
resistance is truly the path of least resistance,
plastic guards drawn as in skirmish, as in a
lighthearted throb toward loads of sore muscles,
they'll never think of crossing trestles.
Welcome to the poetry web site of Larry Ingram. Larry is a poet, writer and observer of our culture.