Over-Bearing 4.3.4

Over cloudy, this time of the dumpster. I’m a brown clover, brown study, limping lump with a dishrag on his branch. The dump in the back is brimming with life. Refuse, day-weeds and children in dirty yellow rain boots. You’ve got to get a cancellation notice from the clouds before the world can end. Didn’t they tell you? The high-holy one’s in his jumper and will be all day. If you’d have gotten here earlier in the week he’d have been leaner on the whole starvation front.

Observe the distinction between intended and obscure: the arm waiving from the window of a passing late model Ford pick-up :: The arm waiving as the body is rolled into a makeshift grave in the weeds past Sutter’s swamp.

Some clouds rely on distinction. Others on the slick curve of human judgment and decency. It’s not the right and wrong that makes us a functioning society, it’s the falling over a crumbly ledge into one ter’nother of distinctions made from higher up.

I got my boots on, Daddy, I’m a laborer.
I got my white foot bloody from scrabbling up the embankment.
The clouds, almighty, cudgel down.