Pity

Fog

There’s a diner that serves pity
On the menu. Something I will order
Just once to see, whether the doves
Have wings, or the serpents will slip
Away. Pity comes like a spacey spaceship
To carry me off to a far-away
Habitable planet, to make me an
Extra-terrestrial, on that lonely place;
Something to salvage me from impressions
That like judgments, are arm-chair opinions.
I’m just a zone defined by flesh.
Anything can land or park on me.
A woman, or a container truck, and
Both are accidents. I am, who I shall be,
And ought to be, writing poems
Like I’m at the final exam and getting an A+
Is a matter of life and death. I’m
Just an accidental poet. Fate hooked me one day,
On the end of a fishing line.
I squirmed, and wriggled, gasping in pain.
And now, here I stand, as era later,
Still training my gills to be lungs.
I’m in a purgatory of sorts,
An amphibian forced to use his lungs.
And hiding beneath the frog’s mask,
Is a prince, learning that pity
Is just skin deep, like paper-thin beauty,
That gifts verses their own lungs,
To dance on paper.

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