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On the Launching Pad and Counting
The blood is turgid
breathes heavily upon the stairs
each hour sticks in the throat
repeats itself day by day
I am not a moral man
just a tired man
sleep in the afternoon sometimes
remember a nine cent loaf of bread
count the pennies curse the stars
hedge my bets and wonder a bit
are you really there is it all a charade?
I have become a private man
sit alone and think too much
the body betrays me
I hurry past dark and dismal alleys
shall I be cremated or buried?
one is too hot the other too cold
the inertness of it troubles me
Shot me into outer space
a star in eternal orbit
around the Earth my mother
I hope she will remember me
Jack Mashman
Rev. 1995 |
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