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by Chad Robertson

I keep my heart in an old rusted coffee tin
I am not the metal man from Oz
True
The words I speak are literal.
I place it high up on the windowsill
In the vain hopes that
Warm sunshine
will one day
weed out my weaknesses
and bury deep
the fragile seedlings
that will root the true me -
this future poet-tree
standing strong
and branching out boughs
of fresh-smelling blossoms
breathtaking enough even
to cause God to sigh.
His exhalation gently rustling
My leaves
And I'll let fall to the earth
Small fruitful feelings -
Pieces of me to
Nourish all the passing creatures
And keep other seedlings warm
But -
Until then
I find spotlight in dark alleys
And long shadows
The likes of which are cast
By objects ignorant
And
Instead of sighing loudly
God has knelt to
Tie his shoelaces
And become preoccupied
By random scattered shiny trinkets.
For 20 some odd years
The light switch remains neglected
And now the night sighs
Because he's paid on salary.
And still I sit still, Crosslegged
On cold and dampened tilework,
Feeling little and knowing less
Holding my breath
For one day's warm sunshine.