the best most createst
3.19.2012
the best most createst man lived in a small room
with dusty cobwebs his neighbors,
and a stuck, dry room to call his own;
his bed was shaped like a flattened rock
and he slept upon it, smiling smock
that many moved out of his smallest room
to a larger room, with ventilation, upstairs
he could maybe claim another in his bed;
was glad to receive a good herb instead
and happily, humbly took his stay
a sailor’s cap he had donned, white
and wore a collared-shirt, white
but wore black soles underneath feet;
destined for his peddling or walking
he knew the town, inside and out
friends’ willing hands eagerly treated decor
and one’s wrists whipped dust from the floor
his would-be lounge was empty and clean;
the elevation of his mind was grinning mean
and eyes, half-open, gleam beneath pink lids
soon work would give him little respite
from a, at times, grim and bleak light
his friends were close as thread on spool;
and willing to throw in with a greenish hue
or a magenta, blanketed inside of capsule
James P McCabe
