the stillness of stones

it does not matter
what song you sing,
or how many dogs
relieve themselves here;
neither today's bright sun,
Friday night's sheets of rain,
nor Winter's sub-zero snaps,
make much of an impression;
the smash of shellfish
dropped by the gulls
is merely a momentary
just like the smear of beer
sloshed drunkenly during
Saturday night's misadventure;
the sweaty haunches
of the resting runners
are a small sprinkle
in a fountain of time,
too deep to see the bottom.

July 19, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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