Edges

 

Precipice, canyon below.

I kick a rock.

There is an echo.

 

Two by four, sawdust above,

a fresh, clean cut,

perch for a dove.

 

A quarter standing straight up

on your table

brings good luck.

 

A paper cut red is bright

on your fingertip.

Will the day go right?

 

Standing on a building tall

many wonder:

will she fall?

 

Raw steel beam a worker sits,

sandwich in hand

held by a fist.

 

You sit there with a stare

a three-point goal

wins by a hair.

 

You begin to parallel park

the curb arising

makes its mark.

 

As so it goes, they’re everywhere

to trip you up,

and they don’t care.

 

Copyright @2022 by Kenn Storck

May be reproduced with permission.

kennstorck@gmail.com