The Pelt

A man hunts in the
Absolvent pine.
He comes home
And pokes his fork at swine.

A man inhales
Crisp mountain air
And hails in
His throne, a grumbling chair.

Big chairs scratch
The manual floor
That stirred
Travail to the core.

A man pets a pelt,
Caressing his cheeks.
A pelt is gold,
Even when it wreaks

From its fresh tragedy,
Like an unbecoming cologne.
It stays
Until he is not alone.

by loquist62
posted on 07/18/2008