Stench Of Discontent

The noise keeps me awake, 

And the static on the TV 

I don’t know how to turn on 

Let alone turn off.

The vibrations trip me up,

Topple me as I walk and think,

Make my knuckles swell,

Ache to type the arthritic words.

There’s more too, like the faces,

Eyes wrung in red rashes,

Stench like piss and rum from

Dirty denim and leaky shoes.

Don’t sit in my breathing space;

You’re money’s no good here.

Turn up the air and open the door.

Nod off your head twisted neck, go.

And I cringe and shake in despair,

Fight off the crusts of anger flung

Face off in my corner here, where?

The door, the door, where’s the door?

Anchor’s a Weight

An anchor rests upon my left foot, 
center of the crown atop metatarsals 
while the shank steels up to my knee 
to measure the length of tibial boxes.


Its weight causes a limp in my walk.


Anchoring my bones,
it weighs against my walking away
and ties me to the hull 
where I see pass by
ocean life abounding 
color and coral free waves 
of undulating weed and water
to please my senses five.
Though tethered to a ship,
I am free to enjoy, observe,
swimming gleefully 
in surging seas.