Exile on Lame Street
an early morningtide
preamble – of sorts
where pebbles, damp
scrunch beneath these
leaded feet
that barely keep time
or so it seems, these days
but carry me on
hesitantly, onward
towards a reluctant bridge
(sometimes you dont need one)
or is it a coda – al segno !
while a somnambulant Maitai
seeps forth a dirge
and languid waters
barely disguise
an ominous silent form
seems we’re all teetering
on a verge – razors edge
or flirting alongside
and I’ll wait, for things
to pass, as they do
kill the hours – hum drum
with empty mirth
or mild amusement
and remember to dance
oh the incisive snap !
over bubbling keys
but no, friend, no I don’t
‘don’t wanna walk, talk about Jesus’
just show me a golden twilight
©Orion Foote, 2016