Dull and dun, dusty and drab, somewhere for the forgotten to linger and know they belong, hands in worn pockets, facing the bracing wind. Rusting girders and cracked concrete foundations poke up through the soil here and there, skeletal reminders that this corner too was once conquered by borders and framework, but now lost to civilization.
A place for cast-off words mumbled sotto voce, crunched and thrown by the poet, missing the mark, discarded and forgotten, blown by the wind, tumbleweed verses skipping across brown and worn-down earth. A new dance of contemporary chaos, watched only by a mangy vixen sheltering under a billowing tarpaulin, both greyed by time, waiting for the inevitably unexpected new thing that will rise.
©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016