Poetry by J.T. Homesley
This peculiar work. For this
lowest legal wage. Paid to
help people play. In the snow.
Tempting gravity. Nowhere to go.
But down hills high speed.
Not for me. Though I will
gladly take pay to keep it on
open all be it precarious
possibility for them. Others
buried in layered flannels
and rainbow goggles. I like
to imagine behind them, they see the world
like a horsefly gushing by trees
bristled hairs in loose tail
whipping. Ears twitching and
brittle as ice. Hit the landing
just right. Broken wings and six
shattered legs lie crumpled in a pile.
Rise from the white ashes,
laughing.
Clearly this whole thing is a peculiarity.
It’s just. They keep on insisting I call it work.
J.T. Homesley is an English teacher, writer, actor and farmer currently based in the Piedmont of North Carolina. He holds a Master of Arts in writing and has been published with collections including Ghost City Review and GreenPrints Magazine. Follow his journey at www.writeractorfarmer.com.
