I saw her on my way to the store. She was in a pile of dirt in a median.
She was beautiful and tall and proud, and so very afraid of the world around.
It was beyond her, she was just a Mother Goose with a nest beneath her.
She was a very good mother, and her kin made it out of that dirt hell.
Surrounded by metals and apes and noise, and she made it with them.
They made their way from that place, that sunken hole, to the water near.
And they grew and became strong and pure themselves.
And I saw Mother sometimes, and I'd watch her from my car.
She did not know me.
I did not know her.
I did not know her name.
But I knew she was good.
Her children were small and grew fast.
Black heads holding infinite knowledge that I'll never know.
I don't know their names.
They don't know my name.
But I knew they'll be good and carry Mother Goose's memory.
And one day
one awful day
I drove to the store
to the store again
down that familiar
and stretching road
where the lake was
and I saw one there
a gosling, a friend
dead on the road
no longer good
and strong
no longer carries
Mother Goose's memory
no longer has
a name that escapes me
no longer watches me
as I watch it
it just watches
the road
baked in red, harsh light
baked in halting red
surrounded by steel
and apes
and noise
and noise
and I cradled it
and brought it back to the dirt
to the mound of hell
that it should
have never needed
to leave
that it should
have never needed
to return to
but it was the best
I could do
rain struck my back
so hard
hiding my sorrows
too
all baked in the red lights
of noise
and apes
and metal
and machines
and things they don't know
and things I don't know
I don't know these things
I don't know these apes
I don't know this gosling
I don't know this gosling
YOU ARE READING
Lines
RastgeleA mess of stuff that won't fit elsewhere. Some are pretty absurdist, no direct continuity unless stated (doubtful on that, these are meant to be one-off poems/stories). I like to explore different styles of writing in small works like this, so some...
