folded over in places not meant to be bent,
and pushed into a remote corner without air,
filtered from the remainder,
laid to rest,
while being kicked, bruised, and stomped,
though still, i can hear with my electric ear
to the ground,
pavement sounds
acetylcholine pushing movement through fossilized
ligaments put on display and curated to fancy the
curiosity of motion played out in many
daguerreotypes laid out on a table for any ole lookie-loo
to do as they do,
and see the daisies pushing through a body clotted from the exhaustion
of living excitedly mundane
there’s something molding
in the corner of the room,
and it’s moving,
it’s moving,
it’s crawling closer, focusing on the middle,
not all that photogenic,
but it has its angles,
has its poses,
has its je ne sais quoi,
though after a second, just one quick blink,
there’s
poof
nothing there,
i promise
Fred Aiken Writing 