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Humble Pie

humble pie, steven humphreys, poem, poetry, prose, books

Wouldn’t you know

When least expected

Riding high

in that saddle

With chip on shoulder

Bucked off that horse

Rubbing sore ass

that hard hit ground

on a granite boulder

It’s that Humble pie

again

comin’ round’

oozing down face

Dripping off chin

Crying in beer

Angry as hell

drinking straight gin

In the midst

of another day

Vainly spent

Pointing finger at them

Yes, THEM

those in that

thar Indian tent!

It’s always pointed at them

Those invisible evaders

responsible for

All the misery and death

maid of honors

It is because of THEM

The ones who’ve insidiously hidden themselves

Veiled safely between the letter of the law

Who are neither here nor there

this evil spirit

here

over there

Everywhere at once

a formless entity

Intruding

with prying eyes

always listening

seeping through

the cracks in our walls

Busting down our doors

making us feel

so very small

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