. . .

I feel like an eggshell lying in the backwoods hidden behind a bush.

I am still a Midwestern shoeshine boy at heart though; not much more…trying to find the eggshells I left behind when I was born.

I feel we are but shadows in the harsh winter snows of Minnesota–listening to angels weeping, demon laughing. Licking our wounds from a ruined garden; trying to change a childhood long gone!…

We are much like the grains of sand: each grain knows about the mountain nearest them, for they all wish to be part of it, if possible–someday. Why not, we are the lucky ones; especially when I think of those who never did get the chance to exist; excluding Judas.

As I get older, death gets thinner, more welcomed to my abode; with its aches and pains. I can swallow it better now, than when I was young. I’m sure there will be an interlude, a silence between death and rebirth: Lima here I come.

Sometimes I wish I was a shoeshine boy again; all one sees is: feet, feet, and more feet; not much sorrow down there.

Sometimes money, education and things get in my way. My mother never had that problem that is why she lived so long.

Every shoeshine boy wants his shine to be a little better than his counterpart; especially when he is watching. It must be human nature. Where are those eggshells?

To be quite honest, the older I get, the less I care to find them eggshells, leave them where they lay.

I will disappear like a shooting star in the middle of the night; just like I came in one fall morning. I shall return like a spaceship lost in space and now looking at the horizon of whatever planet lays beyond.

Note: 676 [Poetic Prose; 5-2005]