There were bellows from underneath the road
one night, as she walked
in her fumbling woe.
We could be so bold as to say she could hear them,
with harrowing precision, like the boughs of the sea
(tumbling in like tumbleweed).
But her fortune lie
in other things
like fighting tigers in the ring
and basking well
of nothing proportions
and blackberry seeds that she sucks from her teeth
to stop the distortions of tooth decay.
She heard the bellows,
the rising steam—but
one can’t prevent happenings.
Better to let them blow over, unnoticed,
or overlooked, at least.
So she turned her attention
to the memory
of a little puppy that nipped at her feet
when she was just seven upon that street.
There weren’t bellows beneath her feet.
was her failing
copyright: C. Ward 2016