Mauve steel extensions
become sky at twilight
as their tips scrape goose wings.
Feathers litter the ground around the girders,
forming small piles until whooshed away
by indigo breezes from an unknown deity
of incomplete wealth. All mortals quaver, mouths agape,
incredulous when faced with beams of such height
without visible supports.
Each post lives separately from the other,
though all rely on one another for morale
and some kind of root ball structure
that our simian species would do well to emulate.
First draft posted to WHARVED on 11/15/11
I don’t have anything to say to the savage sauvignon or the temperamental tempranillo, they wouldn’t understand me anyway. I do have a bone to pick with these stubborn varietals, but I’d rather keep my emotions bottled up until near explosion. Something about keeping my feelings below the surface just seems right, until I blow my top at a valet guy who’s just trying to do his job. I can’t predict when my manic episode will happen, so I’ll just be leaving it up to chance, the decider of all fate.
Just a note for you, grand deciders of my fate: a wine tasting would be a really good way to boost morale around here. I don’t know if I’m your only subject or if you have an entire warehouse filled with these padded holding cells, but just keep that in mind if you’re looking to do something nice for me/us.
I really wish I could use my arms.