Tortured—yes, it must be.
Empty—why must I be?
Batter still clings to this
bowl; will February
scrape me clean?
The butterfly has become
a slug; all the pretty colors
are lost, and I think I abhor
the spring. Where is my
rebirth? It wasn't merely
lost in the snow, but rather
it was lost long ago, and I
just didn't know it yet.
I wouldn't cry, or even
think of any of this, but she
keeps tickling me, pricking
my memories, and sickening
my mind against me.
I own that little shoe box
(third shelf, second from the
left), but only for a while. You
know what they say about
idle hands.
But, I'd have to say the devil's
been good to me. Yeah, me
and Beelzebub...playing chess,
and debating the meaning of life,
all the while thanking God
for the air we breathe.
The pilot has gone off course;
all the fluffy clouds turned
to gray, but I do so love a storm.
Let it rain.
Yes, torture must be, but let it
be thick. If my empty soul were
a rain bucket, I'd gladly leave it
in the inclement weather. Yes,
let it rain.
© Kerri Jenkins, February 26, 2001
