Poetry

Hermit crab

The day is warm on my face, so I emerge from my home

to track down supplies. It shouldn’t be too bad, I can enjoy the breeze

and how the sun trickles on my limbs.

Scuttling along, intending to be content.

Do I really need my shell?

There’s nothing to bruise my soft body here–

whoosh.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

What is that? Those startling things

all herded in groups or alone with noses in black mirrors?

They don’t even see me.

Feet stomping, arms swinging, brows furrowed.

Blind to a little crab trying to find food and appreciate the air.

Better be getting home, before they extinguish me with their ignorance.

Poetry

Life Lines

I keep it locked away in a small box

I paint it on my skin

I wear it in my smile

I hide it in a bottle of gin.

I hold it out like a banner

I tuck in it my boots

I coat it in beeswax

I simply don’t give two hoots.

I display it proud on a shelf

I hug it tight to my chest

I watch it and make notes

I take pleasure it giving it out as a test.