A swatch of human feeling torn from old jeans,
ragged, washed and cheap
like Ma’s scalded fingertips
from serving hot milk,
to her hungry kids.
We lived in a house with no dimensions,
on the edge of destiny’s demise.
We were fed.
We were happy.
We tried to be.
We wished to say our piece.
Tiny feet and tiny hands walked on saw dust
to say the words that disappeared
from a scabrous tongue,
just when we needed them the most.
Formants overstressed, depressed.
I suffer from an ancient disease.
A hungry, malnourished heart that’ll never be set right.
Just to the left of this crumbling vertebrae, in this play, we all play our part.
Swatch of human feeling
