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The StoryTeller

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It is not a day for Poetry--

It is for ripped knees,
scraggly fingers run through
scraggly hair,
and ribbed walls torn
under skies that bled and
seeped their color down,
now bright.

Clouds stole the fields, rain-
softened petals,
tears in the crook of a little
nose--
but not the toll of the bells because
they were too heavy,
crushing stones in a young stomach,
cold bread, not paid for, tasteless,
like the words of the last years ago
and the spilling of the silvered suns
into his weathered hat.

And the people still think they hear poetry.



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