Cobbled Together
Who walks amongst us barely notice
that we are rocking cobbles underfoot
unsettled as firm in concrete as others,
and why in hell would they?
Nothing to see here, move along.
Perhaps secretly you wish they'd think
about how overlaying smooth tarmac,
hides cracks, saves turned over ankles
from splintering as they twist and shout,
'if so, what’s that all about?'
you might fairly ask, pass me by with a wink,
remarking that we’ll meet on set in the sequel,
to Next Life and Life’s Next, but equally
why not now? If age shall wither her,
cobs left too long on the windowsill crumble,
sans strings, a used T Bag sags off, grumbles
about tea-leaf parchments browned, dried,
ready for some thrown together display.
Cobbled heels feel worn, under shod,
and once so full, so proud, so breasts sag.
Inevitably, we resemble those same 3 hags,
who round and round the cauldron stumbled
muttering words pleasing to touch,
but don’t overthink our ruins too much,
just catch shot bolts out of black and blue,
well old, once bold, grown cold, still found
riding storms, throwing scorns, stepping on
those better set cobbles together.
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