There was a road that leads him to go to find 
a certain time where he sits. 

Smokes quietly in the evening by the four legged 
table wagging its (well why not) tail, friendly 
chap. 

Hears footsteps, looks to find his own feet gone. 

The road absorbs everything with rumors of sleep. 

And then he looked for himself and even he was gone. 

Looked for the road and even that . . .

Added: on May 18th, 2005 at 2:04 PM | Viewed: 2463 times | Comments (1)

Poet: Russell Edson (Russell Edson Art)
Poem: Hands
Poem of the Day: Aug 20 2007

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