Fortune

We think we are little gods
yet the one thing we fear most is to be left alone
So we carve one another’s names into the desktops,
drop rocks from the trestle.
We invent and overuse the long vowel.
To be loved, speak with your hands.
To learn how, open a magazine
and try to catch the little cards as they flutter to the floor.
Some numbers come with secret powers.
Some secret powers come with little power at all.

Poem by Dobby Gibson
Painting: Intersection by Jim Gaylord, oil on linen, 24 x 40 in., 2008

Tags:dobby gibsonjim gaylordPoetrystream of consciousness