Living the Dream

This place is a fish bowl with the sand at the bottom,
shaped like a turtle shell turned upside down,
lying dry and dented belly-up to the big blue sky.

It is hard and sharp-edged, enough to cut the feet
of one who wanders too close to falling out.
A familiar travel but like walking to the moon
caught in a downward spiral of a whirlpool
sucking, tucking us against the dusty walls
like a curled leaf waiting to crackle and shatter.

It is a beggar’s bowl, a dog’s bowl left to mildew,
masquerade container of milk and honey,
a shell in a shell game where the coin hides well.
It is a cracked and chipped tongue
licking the sand for a drop of moisture
then bowing itself to the heavens
waiting for rain to drop.

This place is the green mould of forgotten
cupped palm, a half-orbit of reality,
an empty pod, settling in for the long wait.

A poem written after seeing an elderly lady being dumped from the hospital, in her hospital gown, on to the streets of the homeless in LA.

Tags: Poems //