Transition Man

At marsh’s edge among the groundsel trees

a lone figure stands in tattered khakis

and torn yellow shirt. He offers praising pleas


with arms in a “why” before the expanse.

An anxious faith pervades his petrous stance

that someOne will nod to his suppliance.


His now-life slumps in a satchel

on the weeds by his feet that straddle

existence between separate societal


circles: one turns within community

safely housed; the other spins without security

dependent on unpredictability.


Fervent mental monologue saturates

his countenance, desperation promulgates

silent, pleading praises. And so he waits


a transition man in the tidy-wild,

the swath where tame and free are reconciled,

waits as though to be lifted like a child

from his altar in the marsh.




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