Whirs the Windmill

Stumbling over epitaphs
steel toed boots are little comfort.
My ankles sprained
the world a ball and chain
creating wormwood trails
well-worked cavernous trenches.

Sky is a funny bedfellow
stretching imperceptibly
its gap toothed smile
betraying secrets of hope and sorrow.
Horizons
bruises or blessings.

A dollar or a penny

for thoughts that blink
(a seedy rest stop
whose saving grace
is a 50 watt bulb with
fickle tendencies.)

Glancing horrors
cause gasps and images
telling a better mystery
than the infamous stork.

And I am caught in limbo
somewhere between the dairy
and the canned food aisle.