We Might Be
You are wise but I am little bits of rice,
bleak with brittle edges,
burnt slightly so that from a bird’s eye view I
can be confused as being a bug, a beetle,
toasted by too much sunshine.
You are wise and I am wrong,
my concepts and opinions unbeaten rugs
bought at a flea market in a country where women wear burkas,
beautiful but buried beneath black cloth.
You are wily while I am willow,
leaning on a warped platform as the approaching train
rumbles the ties that keep it aligned,
so that people get where they desire,
so that no one dies.
You are whatever you please and I am simply here,
parceling us out, making change for a dollar, sorting keys,
trying to figure out what we are and what we’re not,
what we might be
if we could ever talk about it.
--Len Kuntz lives on a lake with his wife, son, an eagle and three pesky beavers. His work appears widely in print and online at such places as Clutching At Straws, The Camel Saloon and lenkuntz.blogspot.com