The Poetry of
Jack Scott


Ask not what is a cob,
it is a plagiarist, a squatter,
though not through fault or greed,
but through default instead of need.
A spider spun this web,
lived quietly upon it.
It trapped and ate, survived,
and then one day was gone,
the web was vacant.
Spiders go away for spider reasons
or, heirless, die intestate.
Its domain remained, unclaimed
by relative or neighbor.
Rehabitation nonetheless commenced
slow as invisibility,
a piecemeal settlement
by bits and flakes and pieces
upon unclaimed estate,
now flypaper to dusty air.
Tiniest particles of what was
and fragments of what is
elsewhere whole:
skin and even people,
trees and shrubs,
and bark and husks,
seeds and sheddings
of dogs and cats and rats.
Dust is everything
strewn everywhere,
light enough to fall up
as well as down.
Even pain and heartbreak
leave forever traces
on each persistent
sticky web.
You asked what is a cob;
ask instead what’s dust.


586 ®Copyright 2012 Jack Scott. All rights reserved.