Crows Feet Worrying, deepening wrinkles, crows feet at my edges of time cut deeper from winds & storms into a well worn wall, adobe thick, mud proofed in the sun from my distresses. Storms, find me fretting over uselessness. Silverware, china patterns, the right gauge shot gun, sofa colors & styles, impenetrable impeccable prayers, correctly folded towels, right answers, dishes in the dishwasher stacked in strictest order. Ah, lost cause self-flagellating perfectionist, seeking shelter between idiot temples of ridiculous donkeys believing themselves to be storming gods. One – Rightness, the other – Correctness. With their stomping thunder clap hoofs and lightning they strike at my feet and eyes, blinding me, forcing me to jittery dance between their stubborn hatefulness.
© SB Joy, 2021