A
Prose Sonnet
He
had seen better days.
He
was weary and full of footsore.
A
look of sadness was on his manly brow.
Far
from home was he and without friends.
And
still he trudged on.
Occasionally
he looked at the sky.
No
pity was there.
The
clouds dank and gray hung heavy.
Likewise
did his spirits hang.
Through
mud and slush knee-deep he toiled.
Ever
and anon he cursed his fate.
Then
up, up the long hill he pushed his byke.
The
pitiless rain in torrents fell.
He
had, indeed, seen better days.
Aug.
8, ‘97
Pub.
in “The
N.Y.
Journal”,
Sep.
12, ‘97
No comments:
Post a Comment