Laughter has become small and brittle
like tiny, shiny pebbles
escaped from courser gravel
through a sieve
fragmenting monotony,
stranding larger particles behind.
Not adhering to each other
or to anything
but some idea of stone,
they tantalize
in their mockery of purpose,
looking only pretty.
You cannot build a wall of them,
nor a solid path or patio.
They are good only for decoration
and there are simply too many of them
to ignore.
203 ®Copyright 1966 Jack Scott. All rights reserved.
From Poemystic.com