Half Aloud

This is when I’m a better man—
My tongue taps so gently
Behind the crooked teeth
Though a syllable escapes
“O” (let’s say) so the wind
Has to listen a crow
Has to turn up high
On his sycamore
A lost dog arrives.
You have to laugh
At the better man:
He’s all spit and furtive sound.
He’s unworkable,
Almost meaningless
Like a barnacle
On the true cross.
“O” he says.

Author: skuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University View all posts by skuusisto