The drama begins innocently enough, in a corner of privacy, a shadowy crook, a charade of grief in the heart of America.
Three children rehearse. One child plays the casket filled with starvation, another a pile of unwashed laundry that stands for the grieving mother, and the third swoops about the room, the ravenous vulture.
The casket poses, “What’re you doing?” The laundry huffs, “You’re the dead kid!” The vulture shrieks, “It’s not my turn!”
The drama begins innocently enough, in a corner of privacy, a shadowy crook, a charade of grief in the heart of America.
Three children rehearse. One child plays the casket filled with starvation, another a pile of unwashed laundry that stands for the grieving mother, and the third swoops about the room, the ravenous vulture.
The casket poses, “What’re you doing?” The laundry huffs, “You’re the dead kid!” The vulture shrieks, “It’s not my turn!”
The drama begins innocently enough, in a corner of privacy, a shadowy crook, a charade of grief in the heart of America.
© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman
Your Muse is strong, PoetryMan.
ReplyDeleteThe September Songs need to be published in book form.
Your heart is beautiful.
Hill,
ReplyDeleteThank you. I will let her know you said so.
I am considering my options on a September Song book.
Peace...