I
wanna leave footprints.
No,
Not
the symbolic kind
Left
by goody-two-shoes
Peacemakers,
Or
jackbooted
Warmakers.
I
wanna leave behind
The
kind
That
creatures make
And
Mother Nature bakes
Immortal
in a freak
Of
circumstance.
Like
the Dinosaur Footprints
Of
the Connecticut River Valley
(Though
I’m not a Dinosaur,
And
can’t afford
Waterfront
property
In
Connecticut).
The
footprints I leave...
They’ll
be celebrities in a million years
Or
so
Revealed
by slow erosion
They’ll
induce intense emotion
In
archeologists, geologists,
And
maybe a cosmetologist
Who
(noticing
my unmatched feet)
Will
squeal,
“Poor
lady! She couldn’t wear high heels!”
1 comment:
This made me actually want to leave footprints, too! I mean, I recovered as soon as I imagined myself spending this Spring squishing around barefoot in my landlord's yard, turning it mud, and most not achieving much except causing him to raise my rent. But for a moment there...
What a poem!
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