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.
