My Progress On Stilts


Old timer, third-rate Orpheus

Lacking even a make-believe Eurydice,

A thousand million steps

And only now do you notice

These ghostly contraptions attached to your feet.

You’re like a windmill on toothpicks

Don’t go near fire.

Don’t try to walk on water.

You’re teetering, you are about to trip

And fall on your face.

Screech-owls and buzzards nest

On your shoulders.

You can see as far as Nebraska.

There’s a little house on the prairie

For you to approach and knock.

Three mighty blows with your stilt

And they scatter like popped corn.

The feast of Cerberus is at hand,

You shout.

Latch on little white hen,

We are going the way of all flesh!

These are the stilts of a melancholy

Drifter talking.

Two straws on their way to the sunset.

We stand like sentries

Keeping the sky company.

Time cannot fall asleep nor can eternity.

Awake they think

And thinking they deepen the silence.

High up there on my stilts

I’m eavesdropping.

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