The Thing in the Corner

The Thing in the Corner

will not let me share

in its mystery

It keeps fanatically to itself,

gazing wistfully at the moon

Its skin ripples in the dawn-winds,

and it gives

a little whimper of a yawn,

stretching til it’s pencil thin

Sometimes it peers curiously at me

as if I were the Thing in the Corner

but I’m not

I’m the Other Thing in the Opposite Corner

of the Same Room

I try to be friendly though, I really do, so it’s not as if it’s

entirely my fault or anything.

Perhaps one day, when we’re both sad, we’ll meet in the

center

of the room and

cry

sympathetically

Til then, it keeps its secrets, and I keep mine.

And now here comes the morning mist

to enshroud the Thing in the Corner once more in

mystery,

and I remain

out in the open, a

vague and random

clue.

© Alfred W. Smith Jr.