Beetlebung and Kettlehole--April Poems

A Judgment

“who are you?” he asks

an alien in this weird place,
among charming green palms
a contorted oak, hosting
crow’s nests high up
and I welcome the burning sun

“with hurricane winds,
your grip is lost
thus you’re firewood”

his verdict is nothing

for I choose my own pattern
of synapses to rule him archaic
and hold on, growing extra legs
into sand, mindful of the lines
he cannot cross


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prompt: a judgment