WAITING FOR TREMOR

WAITING FOR TREMOR


This little mound of flesh I call my own,

This bulbous bag of bones I haul o’er the globe.

Stiff as a New Year’s cocktail,
rusty as the Tin Man,

Yearns to heave and smolder like a mighty volcano.


They say it’s best to quiver and shake,

The future brighter with a rhythmic pill roll.

They say there’s hope in the twitch of a finger,
like Michael J. Fox’s swift dancing pinkie.

And so I sit an impatient Mount Saint Helens,

And in my dreams I’m a rampaging Vesuvius.

Like a guard in the watchtower, I stake my claim.

A hungry captive trapped in my vessel.

Waiting for tremor on bended knee,

Blindly believing in the eruption to come.

-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED