Spit

 

Your white life flickers and jumps

Like a character on a 1930's movie screen.

Yet who knows you beyond this illusionary shadow?

None or few.

 

Your milky mind sighs and floats

Like obscure, bone-bleached driftwood.

Yet who feels your pain and fear?

One or two.

 

Your body is sand and loam, weeds and leaves,

Fooled by your second-class movie

Into thinking you are somebody.

 

Yet you will be missed

Like a slim finger pulled from a bucket of water,

Like a wad of spit falling on a dusty, black cinder.