our own

the players go,
the game goes on.
we watch, and drink
our saturdays,
and life is ringed with others’ ease
and roped with our own sorrows,
those that tear the skin of face and eyes.

we claim a heart
to call our own,
and tend the land
to make it grow,
but what we fear, we soon become:
insipid, flat, and nebbish —
parsimonious in all we do.

for what’s our own
is really leased.
we travel west,
arrive back east,
seeking the more that’s always less;
in moments of sad clearness,
we place our close-held dreams in boxes

  sealed neatly as our craft knows how,
  as wind blows sand,
  and dust looks on
  at dust

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