Today's poem is by Nance Van Winckel
The funny bearded goat
goes down on his knees, the in-and-out
of frail ribs in the dust.
I listen, then tell you what the bellboy
said. Since he used his hands
I use mine. Since he's crying, I am.
The hotel's tiled lobby we'd walked through
yesterdayis today's dust around a goat.
All of us had been bussed to a basement.
Overhead, a factory of gray machines
and the ping-ping as metal parts shook loose.
Everyone gnawing at their own wounds
through a night of punctured breathing,
after a week of upended destinies,
and a long month between your dream
and mine. Keeping our distance,
and then not. The nuts and bolts
falling. I touched your chest.
Those ribs beneath your dusty suit
seemed the first ribs taking in
the first breaths of the world.
Copyright © 2003 Nance Van Winckel All rights reserved
from West Branch
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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