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All Fours


As we ungrow older
We sprout more legs
Becoming sorry tripods
And even quadrupeds

Each foot shoots out
A rubber shoe
And shuffles that way
Broken people do

And care must be taken
On polished floors
Scrubbed of life
Behind closed doors

It isnít far-fetched
To imagine a herd
Of long-lost men
Dissolving in joy

In an endless sea
And upon the beach
Sets of white gnashers
And ceramic joints

Time's full measure
Of revamped oxygen
Leaving them wordless
And heavenly flotsam

© David Incoll 2001


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Copyright by David Incoll 2001