The Poetry of Richard Schletty
His large nose
senses no mystical realm,
no god,
no hope,
no aroma of love.

With dulled senses
he stumbles
'cross small divides,
ne'er seizing the day,
ne'er reaching for stars.

He cannot adjust
his lifelong habits
to forestall disaster.
The assailant can surely
snatch away all.

His attitude stinks.
His muscles are atrophied.
His mind is anemic.
He is unable and unwilling
to embrace neighbors.

He is an automaton
who spins out his days
in grief,
in despair,

He is an easy mark,
a sitting duck,
to be bagged and diced,
skewered and fried,
consumed and regurgitated.

Lord, help the man.

© 2006 Richard Schletty
All rights reserved.

Richard Schletty's Indwellings (offsite poetry)
Richard Schletty's Sonority (offsite music)