dirty ointment trash shoes

The ointment is still on

And I find no joy 

(it brings me no solace)

To be the one

Who leaves your shoes 

On the dirty ground

Outside the trash 

Of the Lost and Found.

My hat pulled low

With black socks

And painted high waters

To disguise 

Who I do not want you to see

During this muggy evening

On the well-policed streets

Of new-town Cincinnati.

It will not be long:

For time’s relative nature

has no relation to me,

We are all immigrants.

So I attack time

With newfound aggression – 

Not an external violent means

To assert some sort of

Dominant notice.

But I have reached 

A new stage

Of self-possession –

A lion who just realized so. 


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