The Poem Reader
The Poem Reader


By Randall Livingston

When I was a kid I loved to dig holes
There's a part of me that must have been mole.
Holes got bigger and deeper as I aged.
My utensils went from spoon to spade.
A small depression is the start of a hole,
you dig on down with no particular goal.
Come back tomorrow and dig some more,
dig and dig till you can't dig no more.
Sometimes a neighbor kid would join in the fun.
The dirt would fly and imaginations would run.
At the end of the day and all had gone home, it was still my hole
I was all alone.
I would cover it with wood, conceal
it with dirt.

My secret sanctum, a womb in the earth.
A candle in a notch gave me illumination.
A garden path towards ruination.
Transformation from boy to man.
Nebulous holes he can't understand.
Enigma and stigma pour out from the void.
Memories of holes, the ones I've enjoyed.
How one survives with so many holes,
but I guess it's no different than freckles or moles.
All the methods I've tried, to fill them all in. Which one do I pick and where to begin
You know all of these holes don't need filling in! Life's shot through with em. They don't grow over nor do they heal. They just are. So deal.

The Poem Reader
The Poem Reader
For lovers of language. Every week a new poem read aloud.
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Dominic Frisby