Root Down, 1961
Our new typhoon is hitting
albeit with diminished punch.
So far. They say it's a big wind
collected of three different storms.
The streets are awash with
unspeakable debris. Walk there.
The eyes are not down watching
all that the world cannot give.
Those last three meals were bad
oily gruesome running sock smells.
Brother Andrew gives me avocadoes
dark green deep earthy pebbly bark.
Yes I do like food. And single-malt
whiskey and unpebbly imported beer.
But see this old dream that wants more
than food. And probably more than love.
© 2015 Rob Schackne