outside, it is
black dark and rain
oblivion.
orange streetlights
occasionally smear small
blots of road,
sidewalks where few choose
to trod. outside
the wind is
enthusiastic,
taking jazz drop
rain and orchestrating
it into rolling rounds.
one chorus
starts its start
and gathers into its
abate,
a hissing pause,
another volley of
soaked voices takes its
place.
we are
most of us
in our homes,
owned or rented or
borrowed. all of it
stolen, near none of us
thieves.
a man yesterday asked me
if i considered him to be
dishonest.
i replied that
dishonesty requires intent,
a willful desire to subvert
Truth.
i said this from
stolen land,
in my colonizers
skin. though i am
neither owner
of land
nor keeper of unkempt
hands; they skew
towards dirt though
rarely ever do they
stick.
and he, this man,
has only a
tenuous relationship
with Truth, yet
is not at all dishonest.
outside, night
rebukes encroaching day.
this time of year is
for it, night,
its broad and rippling
back. soon
enough light
will come wandering
back, to again claim
temporary possession
of this
land.
rain is indifferent
to the Truth of
light or its lack.
this planet is
indifferent to us all.
its indifference,
an allowance. we,
here, are all
granted acceptance,
and allowed to turn
away.
zakschafer.com 