by Glen Martin Fitch
I miss their greasy feel,
their subtle scent.
In my hot fists,
they jostled,
trading specks.
I prized the ones
with gold or sliver flecks.
Some wear my spit.
I made that milk tooth dent.
There's almond,
chestnut, eggplant,
copper, or canary,
coral, ruby, sapphire, jade
or olive, orange, lime
or onyx shade
or orchid, rose.
Each hue's a metaphor.
I learned which ones to use
on pad or page
for waxy waves
or soapy skies,
chalk rocks.
Some broken in their sleeves,
by use they age..
For years most stood attention
in their box,
a rainbow of potential
all infused.
Like me
they wait unrealized,
unused.
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ABOUT THE POET ~
Glen Fitch is a 16th Century poet lost in the 21st Century. Born near Niagara Falls, educated in the Catskills, thirty years on the Monterey Bay he now lives in Palm Springs. Retail not academics has paid the bills. Someday he will finish Spenser's "The Fairie Queene."
Last updated August 23, 2011