Mar

4

The Troll

The Troll

You don’t have to be drunk
to stagger when you’re the troll
under the bridge, trembling
as your ceiling crumbles with each
vehicle that crosses the street
overhead and pebbles like thoughts
drop into puddles at your feet,
thoughts you would like to retrieve
that stumble randomly like apparitions
among darkening shadows and struggle
in and out of the recesses of the pool
of your not so recent memory. You wonder
if and how you’ve been seen here
and who might know you’re in this place.
Your balance, always precarious, goes
and you fall face first into an abyss
of dense dirty water not entirely
by accident looking for gold
that could not possibly be there,
as if you had any use for that.

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