Crossing the road is imminent.
The moon is high –
The lake is still
And the blob-a-gobs jiggle
and mulch inside and all thoughts
are fat with ‘Pop’
And my back it pipes with nuptial
clamp – that once I loved –
but now I carry
So it’s time to face
the tarmac
again – to cross
my toes and gloss my warts
To trust
in the abundance of buckets
and their fluorescent
rain-zippered
Gods.
published in The New Writer