A Snake in Another Skin

 

The quiche

rose and fell

as the armies

marched on whims and desire.

 

Grown richer,

fatter,

on the poor

man’s larder:

his hard won

illusions of freedom

and lord of

his small plot.

 

Until he

could no longer

feed himself,

clothe his miniatures,

leave a legacy in

his passing.

 

He took up rake and

hoe,

joined his fellow

poor lot

and

drove the fat man’s

ankles,

his gouted toes,

his silken tongue,

from the

harsh reality of

stone and tower.

 

To the forest glen

where all is green

all is equal.

 

And a serpent

is just a

snake in another skin.

 

- Linda Woolven