I, the Loman

I am the clay salesman,

Running from the kiln,

Smearing my expressions to suit the sale.

And the smiles of others become the fire downwind,

Keeping me aloof,

Pushing me in the direction of the clouds.

Green velvet slippers are beside my bed as I sleep,

Waiting for my soles.

But I cannot wake,

For my deformity, conformity, uniformity –

They do not fit into my slippers.

They are not my size.

I am the clay salesman.

I am the lost name,

Responding to all names,

Smudging the ink on the page beyond recognition.

And the clock passes me by on the freeway of being,

Holding me nameless,

Forcing me to buy the ideas of my nation.

A rubber hose swills my names,

Nurturing the barren seed once planted inside me.

But it will not grow,

For germination has long since failed.

I have neglected my own chance.

I am the lost name.

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This entry was posted on Saturday, March 20th, 2004 at 10:09 pm and is filed under Poetry. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.