I Have Feet
I have feet
it is good to know
I have feet
to take me down
the pebbled road
There
the pigeons gather
to feast on crumbs
Where, o where
is my slice
of the capitalist pie?
I have feet
instead of claws
or a wheelchair
my footsteps
drowned out
by the whoosh of traffic
The Painted Door
I'd open the door for you,
man, woman,
dark-haired or blonde,
any colored eyes,
clean-cut or rugged,
holes or no holes
on jeans.
A door,
if you'd allow me,
to the wonderland
in my heart,
where we interlock
our multicolored,
smooth or rough
fingers.
First published in Alien Buddha Zine
