Creative Living, Creative Works - Angela M. Counts

Nothing There By Angela Counts © 2008 So there is nothing there. Nothing I can see. But the rub out. Of what was to have been me. With pencil it is possible to erase. With memory. With words to kill. The soft, tender flesh of the ill At ease, Not so quick to accuse. I have my reputation to maintain. I like rain because it drowns out the silence, Better than pills Or ear plugs. It purifies. But don’t drink it. Don’t even think it. We still have our tawny earth. Not with the big “E.” Never understood that one. EARTH. Too big, even from space. We won that race. Does anyone remember.? Do we still want to go to the moon? I do, at least for a visit. I wouldn’t stay, not enough amenities. When they get in the fried chicken and tofu, maybe. Maybe I’m crazy, but if we’ve wrecked this place What’s next, it’s not easy getting an apartment as it is. Will I need connections, or just get left behind? Ah, who cares. There’ll still be some remote island where the bugs still care. Where the wear and te