A crutch wedged in a thankful pit,
Close-gripped with a knurled fist
- Suspension bridge of pure grit -
Each reached plank, a pearled day.
Each early stride, a kept pledge
To un-scar an old, unkempt waddle,
Like forswearing the old booze bottle,
From near plank to far ledge.
Far below a thankless pride
Stokes dank and orange grudges,
Declining all crutches for gorges.
Thus it, with itself gorged, trudges.
The earthen lip of the far ledge beckons
To this wrecked boy. (Our days are few.)
“I'll use what I have, ” he reckons,
'Now and through my final seconds.”
[2-8-05 Santa Rosa, CA (revised 1-29-08 Livermore, CA) ]