Author Information
The Dud
Inferno cased in flesh and cotton scruff,
wallowing in a terminal between above and below.
Not quite a child, not quite a man;
not a thing like the adequate of which he stacked against.
Invented by and fed from the mouth
of those who cared enough to pass him along.
Now he is but a package on a filthy tabletop,
losing sight of carrier and of destination.
Half-a-dozen dyes bring him into vibrancy -
yet the shadow he casts obscures them towards the dark.
With no neck on which to turn, no hands to reach and grasp:
he assumes his fuse has rot or gone missing.
The sounds he could have made, the sights he could have granted,
The smell of his waking aftermath:
All of it lost to his dependency on the damp.
And now that he's here, and that he's settled;
he tries to tempt the passers-by...
So that they will handle him and marvel at his casing,
just before they set him aside as a dud.
