we sit waist deep
in the dusty ashes,
scooping our dried-up
dreams in our hands,
letting them sift
through our fingers,
watching them gently
swirl in the air;
you come along,
a bucket of warm hope
in your hands,
sitting down next
to us, you suggest,
'maybe if we add this
to the mess,
we can create something
wonderful.'
so veddy proper,
in the top percentile
on the prim-o-meter,
we walk stiff-necked,
straight-backed through life
where you hide around
the corner,
giggling with your lifelong
pal, Spirit, arms full of balloons
bulging with victus aqua,
hoping to deluge us,
until
we loosen up enough
to lose ourselves
in you.
(c) 2010 Thom M. Shuman
