DISCOBOLUS
he rakes leaves with his chest like statues might in a Discobolus.
he would always cast down his eye on everything.
he had led a small-ish life so far, but consequentially,
or, because of it actually, he could hold onto a tiger and not bear down at all.
he whispered a fervent prayer and was surprised when his voice was engulfed
into a pandemic-like sea of other voices; this one nodding, that one cautiously still.
but, musing,
as any
girl would,
I can
only remember,
of course,
the faint
pressing outline
of his
backbone protruding
from his
white collared
cotton shirt
and a
questioning neck,
leaning out
only to
ask a
pointless question.
Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry
Golden Star Poetry 