sound: beginning to emerge
Tom sits beyond his window
along the house but barely in it,
above the ground but not upon it,
a place in which he cannot be.
He used to live inside the
house, with a serge blue suit and
polished shoes, but someone
forgot to lock him in one night
and he snuck outside instead.
Refinement relegated to
a pile of crumpled shirt
and tie, he felt the fresh grass
squish beneath his soles,
and so took off his shoes.
He grew cold without his suit
and dressed himself,
heading back for home;
yet left his feet bare, unbound,
paying homage to his inner soul.
The door maid wouldn’t let him
pass. She said, “not with grassy toes,”
despite all pleas and such
she would not bend, but declared,
instead, “how rude” and shut the door.
Though Tom longed for hearth
and home, serge suits and
all they brought, he could not bear
the thought of binding up
his joyous soles once more.
In desperation he scaled the trees,
making a seat among the leaves,
now floating somewhere
beyond the breeze—
ever poised to take a fall.
But where he sits does not exist
it cannot be ever real,
for Tom cannot craft a seat of air,
and who can live between two worlds?