underland

    Miss’d your call.

My past-shadow’s
    Been skippin’ each crack,
          For fear a twist in his Momma’s
    Two-job-back,
            Only tip-toeing the vast-black
          Void you’ve built into his no-pole, slip-away slope:

            That unglued, impossibly corkscrewed hope;
        Why, unashamedly, he—
                To this very, everyday—
          Lets loose the play
      In the stiffest rope…

        Just to fall
                Into any other hole.

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    Poetry: Empty
        https://windstrewn.com/2020/09/11/empty/