Poetry

Smooth

The prints have eroded. Valleys once so telling

broken, worn to anonymity.

Gloves have more soul than they do

and can still be hurt by the constant wash of disinfectant

and bleach, the routine so well rehearsed

that the very ground has become a giant record,

one that needs no needle to sound its ghosts.

Poetry

Response to the Dead Poets Society

If you squash them,

if you bend them,

if you project your face onto theirs,

their minds will break:

reflections shattered, a mass of cracks and holes

where a person should be.

Their bodies will rot, bulge, blacken, weep.

Kindling that longs to ignite

if only to prove that it has some self-worth left.

And at the end of it,

still it will not be your name you see,

but theirs, as it only ever could.

You failed them,

yet stand where they still should.