7

Confetti for the janitor's broom
After the boom-box fades,
They shred me.

Who have I hurt?
Which friend offended?
What foe without reason?

Does anyone think to judge a man
Not by the practical spotlight
But by all his deeds together?

Who knows me well enough
To try my mind and heart:
A judge with the right to be indignant?

Then sweep me into the iron scale
The kiln that rends my grain to grains
And rips the rest to roaring flame.



Unconsidered deeds,
Like a pendulum rising,
Full crested like the moon

Are sharp, deadly
Poisoned whetted blades
Descend on the pregnant

Birthing mischief
(The cluttered mind unmapped
Cannot recall

All the traps it's baited).
I will sing of this
And wait.


© Dan Goorevitch, 1998