Cockleshells
Fear resides in a handful of dust.
Dust to dust;
We're already dust,
infinitesimally small, crouched in a chair,
in a basement,
Too white to see light.
Lily-livered white that shivers in the dark.
Fists shaken at screens;
Shoes pounded on tables... like Hitler?
No, like Nikita Khrushchev.
Google is my friend until it verifies diagnoses.
Dust flies from pounded shoes,
Flies from fingers scoring points.
Flies arise from rotting dust.
He's put in his place.
Voices louden.
No worries with shoes to pound.
Dust to dust;
Ashes to ashes,
We all fall down.
The wasteland's dust blows away--
the good soil;
the good soul.
Ashes to ashes,
How does my garden grow?
Silver bells, cockleshells--
but I can't get my ducks in a row.
Submitted: December 27, 2024
© Copyright 2025 Sheila Hollinghead. All rights reserved.
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