Image for the poem a crowd

a crowd

That stimulated sky turns away,
perhaps it sees the uncertainty that I'll commit
to anything useful today. It no longer seems
as engaged in this scene so, likely,
it's mutual apathy.
I take the grey on side,
grit cold and walk with it,
scramble the living room of a quarry,
all her slate hued cushions,
around a glass ripple coffee table,
take the long way, over stones,
through Tolkien drapery,
let him help me
stone hop over stream.
It seems safe,
it seems fine
to be in company,
steady company,
nothing to find
nor analyse.
It spins
when the exposing wind whips him down,
it's a joint sport, ambling,
coffee company has four walls
and a pine board ceiling.
We drive in convoy,
neither queues well.
Take it onwards
to where, I'm told,
they need another extractor fan
and a downstairs,
free of VHS, like the old times.
I admire a small child sitting on a high counter,
the hair of a woman,
food, a piece of pottery, the scent of the swirl.
And for a moment it feels okay,
it feels almost alright,
to not be okay   --   sometimes.
Written by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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