Backpack
by Ted Elliot
Alone –
with naught but
my fingertips
and a forgotten coat
on a metro bench,
bleeding fluorescent.
The busker plays Bach
on vintage violin,
drowsy and blue.
Is it emotional
to belong amongst
weeds so brown,
dripping sweat
for only
the honey bee?
They tell me
to stay in school
on the puppeteer’s
string, dancing
akimbo, like the
word on a wing.
Relax your tired
eyes, you’ve still
got time for whispers.
The squirrel in the
nook, harvesting acorns,
reminds me of your
bookshelf. So, I
go, with a backpack
full of modernism –
my only company.
Backpack by Ted Elliot is a Blasted Tree original poem