They trudge along,
all with the same rhythms.
One, Two, Three, Four,
dum, dum, dum, dum.
They are all predictable,
concrete. Difficult
to bring to life.
You can't make a number dance,
only plod.
Except for seven.
Seven.
Two syllables in a sea
of monosyllabic dreck.
You see,
Seven can fly,
Seven can sprint,
Seven can waltz across a room.
Perhaps this is why it is lucky.
Come on,
Papa needs a new pair of shoes.
!!!
ReplyDeleteBrill.
ReplyDeleteThere's something not right about the lines here. Maybe the brevity of the line and the many, short stanzas. I could be wrong, but while I read it I felt like i was straining against the enjambments, wanting longer lines and more uniform stanzas.
ReplyDeleteGood stuff nonetheless.