A Place Without Words
I am there now, a place without words. In between white socks spread across the laundry room counter. There are too many to count. Brown toe with stretched heel. Green stripe and yellow toes. Who belongs to these socks? They do not belong to me. So I move from one place without words to another. Like Sylvia Plath without a typewriter or Kurt Schwitters hiding under a table in a concentration camp. Waiting for scraps of food or paper to fall. Waiting to make art out of nothing. To make art out of something that someone else has thrown away. Is there an end to the poem? I don’t know. I am in a place without words. by Pam RuBert aka PaMdora