Gut Master Of Lore Poem by James McLain
Gut Master Of Lore
I walk around her.
She has naught presumed.
The people's court.
A poor mother.
No father.
No one can see chains.
Yes! No!
Your questions they are?
The point rises and falls.
With a wet thick plop, one
passes, to the left,
one can to the right.
Being strong
she is the weakest link.
Amongst them.
Monday, July 22, 2013
Topic(s) of this poem: chains
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8/29/2026 4:28:50 PM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
