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

Leave a Reply