Sitting on a tray
In a cold case
People point and ogle
Think and wonder and
Sometimes yes often no
Like men in bars
And puppies in pounds
Or flowers in fields
All knowing that we
Are something something more
Than we appear to
Be if they’d only
Pick us and see
It’s always a surprise
When soul’s finally reconnect
Having been cast randomly
About like dice thrown
And skeetering off tables
Or bars declared cocked
And forced to do
Over souls really are
No more than dice
Thrown found and read
Nothing when just one
Yet something when paired
Or more with similarly
Found ones like themselves
And like a willow
Or a river birch
I found my self
Rooted and simply standing
Often and at times
Victim of the wind
Which wound and weaved
Through the years limbs
And every so often
Men would stumble upon
Me in search of the
The river in which
They swam I drank
Throwing off their clothes
And splashing and diving
In and beneath me
The river their baptism
And me their comfort
A rolling stone gathers
No moss but does
Break hearts an open
Door is different than
A key intimacy is
Dull but unlocks everything
Else sex is always
An expression of something
Else the only truth
Worth telling is the
One to yourself never
Do your best for
Anyone ever but you
Like a book finally
Written my story told
I sit and wait
To be read knowing
That I’m chock full
Of adventures if only
Someone wishes to go
On them with me
HARLAN DIDRICKSON 