could i carry myself better
if perhaps
hills were not so steep
if i did not act as a labourer
and dig up my street
could i perform with a degree of aplomb
if my ultimate success
was not wired like a bomb

days when i was smaller
and parents lit cigarettes
as the smoke of discarded attachments
drifted to the sky

where are you?
standing on the corner of the road
i was so cold
i was sure it was going to snow

people
build walls
not bridges
as they get older

i cannot be that person –
as try as i might
i am not that type
the font of all knowledge –
is camped out
and the bottom of a wishing well