Looking For Hope (day 1690)

From lines dragging down my wrists
I observed patience in a drop,
Dripping from my pointed forefinger
That rummaged odd bits discarded into
An old tin box.
I was looking for hope,
But instead found rusty nails
That left ocre upon my calloused tip,
Long ago since numb.

Dumping the remains onto the desk, I read out loud the words
That had been etched into the underside
By an uneven hand:
These words sounded hallow,
And my thoughts once again followed
My wrists lines dripping
Onto the desk where an empty cartridge
Slowly rolled back and forth.

The Number Two (day 1197)

Laughter is the animal,
Spirit of mother goose.
Summer around little rock
And monkey isn’t right.

Delight a fancy chimney sweep,
Pitter-patter on the roof.
Love in a tin bucket twice
Spitoon for primal juice.

Guns and other ghastly ammunition
Scare a whisper like a ghost,
Take a little sharp arrow
Pierce appointed hour aloof.