I was born a thumbtack, and God was an
Office worker. He found me in his pocket,
Lesser than his gilded lint, and I was keen
To prick his leg in transit.
Even gods can bleed.
I became a splinter, a vagrant sentry catching
Grasshoppers in place of a school bus. Home and
Hands covered in bug spit taught me more than any
Teacher ever would.
There's always one exception.
I met a poet in reflection, and he taught me how
Important hot asphalt is to a pair of naked feet.
The heat waves paint a picture, and I learned
To take off my shoes.
What trickles outward forms the road.