Skin Elasticity
by Robert Strickland

I lost my birth somewhere
in all this shit I’ve been doing
for the last fifty-seven years.

Mother called Sunday.
I asked her but she couldn’t
remember. Friends

I gathered around
like goose down
became recluses

who stock pile canned goods
instead of cleaning the carpet
then walk off the edge

of the world.
So why ask them?
I made money

because there’s no money
in poetry then confirmed
there is no poetry in money either

just like Graves said. It’s true
I lost my birth but, strange
as it seems, eyes get
clearer every day
on where death
is hiding.

Robert Strickland is a bassist, composer, singer, multi-instrumentalist, and poet. His family hails from the American Deep South, with originally English and Dutch roots. Splitting his time between Colorado and Florida, he pursues his interest in the intersection of poetry, music, photography, painting and other art forms. His work has appeared, or is scheduled to appear, in The Pale Horse Review, A Handful Of Stones, and Houseboat, where he was recently a featured poet.

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