Wednesday, July 11, 2007

In The Ditch

a ditch
runs through
my heart,
the ice water
of my propriety
carving it deeper and deeper.

i would fill it in
with some fine topsoil
mixed with fertilizer,
then plant it with
a bright bed
of daffodils, geraniums
and an array of shade trees
that would cause my neighbors
to shake their heads
as they pass by,
remarking on its beauty.

but you . . .

you fill it:
with homeless panhandlers
and struggling single mothers
working three jobs;
with teenagers longing
for self-esteem
and seasoned citizens
hoping to unearth their dreams;
with all those who have been robbed
by a world busy building ditches.

and when i try to slip by,
you reach out and trip me,
knowing that it is in that ditch,
and the next one,
and the one after . . .

i find myself,
my neighbor,


(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

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