Sunday, October 20, 2013

A Poem

When I Walk

When I walk I pick up little objects
Rusted washers, old square nails, metal parts
that have been run over so many times
they have become a shape
bullets, an odd piece of wood,
pretty rocks
I used to bring my grandma a pretty rock from each
of my travels
Stripey granite from the Rockies
Stripey granite from the Alps
Fossils and quartz found near
Black flint and red sandstone found afar
Collected with the othering offerings
Brought by everyone and herself
And then, without her curating
The collection dwindled and dispersed
In the alleys I find the rusted things
Skins shaped by the traveled open ground
I had someone to bring them to
Offer them from my pocket every morning as I returned
Now they collect here
But by me
Waiting to be dispersed.