Sunday, March 11, 2012


Astringent as the chill,
the smoke ascends
and smites the bleary eyes
from yonder hill:

Draw closer, frightened one;
the footsteps speed
from curiosity
into a run -

In horror, prim and stern,
the scene unfolds,
my gawking scolding what
the smell confirms;

Oh, tardy truants thus!
So comatose,
in view of all the street,

I feel it is my right,
my duty!  Yes -
to reprimand "this sort",
to set them right;

And yet - no words will come,
for out of shock
my bleak hypocrisy *
turns mute and numb.

We grudging brethren are
and share one tongue;
though speaking dialects,
seem not so far:

Escaping in his way
is bolder fun -
but my rebellion speaks
far past the day -

a little farther, still!

* This does not mean I smoke pot.

1 comment:

  1. Oh, wow! I just now noticed the rhyme! I like this one very much.


One Art, to recognize, must be,
Another Art to Praise.

- Emily Dickinson