I am Dry

I am dry
Dry as a seed in its remembrance
Dry as a nun’s history book
Dry as an old divorcee
So full of lost and found resentments
That he’s lost all his blood

I am dry
Dry as an ancient tomb
Dry as a miser’s fingers
Parchment fading in its hidden nook
Lost in a forgotten corner

I am dry
Poems not relentless any more
Leaves that drift down to foreign heaps
To empty bottles
To children crying in the night
To lovers turned enemies
To dreaming about the horrors
The morrow may bring

Empty plates
Broken cups
Chocolate powder all spilled on the ground
Grains of sweetness waiting to be carried patiently
Into ant’s granaries
Only to be trampled by uncaring boots

I am dry
Will it ever it rain again?

© 2004 Johnmichael Simon