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Down The Rusted Needle

Allison Grayhurst

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Down The Rusted Needle

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Down the rusted needle

     into a work of art –

            fast-paced, missed out on

          the joy of nothing to do.

The eyes as sharp as the nerves,

                        permanently over-wrought,

          performing surgery on every detail.

A million white feathers

          tipped the scale, and babies only panic

                                    for lack of love as does

            the most hardened of us all.

Needing some absolutes like

                        “destiny” and God’s voice sure

inside my head. Needing to feel

            that this ghetto of closed dreams

                        is just me reeling in my cowardice –

an unacclaimed somebody.

            But to wait on the telephone or TV or some

          future killed-anguish in this place where nothing blows

            nor ceases to burn is like a decade with no holiday or

          a cracked egg on the lawn.

            But to try…

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