One day He tipped His top hat and walked out of the room, ending the argument. He stomped off saying: I don't give guarantees. I was left quite alone using up the darkness I rolled up my sweater, up in a ball, and took it to bed with me, a kind of stand-in for God, that washerwoman who walks out when you're clean but not ironed. When I woke up the sweater had turned to bricks of gold. I'd won the world but like a forsaken explorer, I'd lost my map. Submitted by RW
Added: 24 Feb 2003 | Last Read: 15 Jan 2021 12:14 PM | Viewed: 7005 times
A PoetryNotes™ eBook is available for this poem for delivery within 24 hours, and usually available within minutes during normal business hours.
ON SALE - only $29.95 19.95!
For more information...