Thing

lurking in the corner like a symphony
unfinished

tepid through the warming up
the fashions of plink and pluck
the style of the fingers
and the fall of the hammer
the pulse that it formed
and where it took you

beat up old cloths lying
in the back of the garden
worn clothes that have no labels
toed morning imprints in the dew
corny fat acorn imprecise and direct
falling under the woven ice shields
cause the storms to ball it up

fallen spaghetti all over the walls
fish pulled up lying on the jetty
because there is no pete in the tar
no leak in the deep jar
no leaf to turn red as summer lies
dead in the grass

plenty of seats for the reds
and done deeds tailing the ends of threads

lost for the meantime
in mounds of paper
demanding attention

lost for the meantime measuring
the depth of the caper
and avoiding frustration.

The thing in the corner grunts and turns away

it is a hot summer's day
so sit down and pray
the for thing
out loud