unspoken for

    Question me?
That answer ain’t easy.
  I’m beaten down
When we start;
    On a frown, take heart—
The firelit tale is queasy.
  I’ve been split apart
From the beginning;
     Truth’ll catch you grinning
Until the ninth inning,
  When heartache swung it through
The roof of my best dream.
    I’m less than I seem,
But more, it’s true.
  I’m the shifting shore
In the hurricane,
    The lore of Orleans,
Painted in pain,
  Tattered jeans,
Knee-deep in the rain
     Between tin-roof-leans.
Still, I’m unbroken,
   Unspoken for.
I’m why love has a chance.
    I’m the washed pants
From the soil of disloyalty.
   I’m free from chain
And the left lane of quick.
    Call me sick,
Make me the footstool
  Of your assumed royalty.
Light the wick
    Of ill-gotten wool
And watch me shine,
   Illuminate me to see
My reflection in the pale light
    Of other’s arrogancy.
Let me be all your sight
   Refuses to believe,
And more than that bitter-root wine.
    My joy will be,
Though some may grieve,
  That I knew, somehow,
To stand upright,
     Hitch the plow,
And fill from nothing
   To brimming the empty weave
Broken-stitched for me.
    I’m nobody—
And scrapingly poor
  ‘Neath that languishingly low bar.
To look up, I’m choicless;
    Even as my dusky plea
Rings loudly voiceless,
  Every last and scarcest star
More beckons me
    To soar.

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