posted on Mar, 25 2008 @ 08:50 PM
The sky reminded him of shag carpet,
orange, with coffee and vomit stains -
the clouds were a scattered puzzle
never finished and thrown on the floor.
Darkened weeds touched his jeans to the thigh,
tickling his white-plastic fanny pack –
that waning moon on his hip,
his unzipped hoodie flailed in wind gusts.
There he stood, isolated in the field,
arms with upward palms raised to the sky,
his eyes wide open waiting for any sign
but only an inky night gradually surrounded him.