THE CRUTCH OF THE MATTER
Weighing matters,
the corncob
pipe’s darkened
bowl accepts
the match.
It burns
with dullness
as a
cob coal would.
And no
thoughts hatch.
I pace
my sandal
on the
stone cobbled
under foot.
Such a
distance, my
soul needs
a cobbler’s
touch. Your
answer is
not in
my house.
Nothing is
tipped on
the tongue.
Attic stalls
are empty
except for
a crutch
cobwebbed to
windowless walls.
– Mark R Ellsworth