Owen Congdon-Moore
For The Clock
occongdonmoore@plymouth.edu

The morning blooms like marigold,

but my soul is only an empty cavern.

I long for the stinging blister,

that shows a hard day’s work amongst the swarm

of people who push and punch.

They are entangled in a long chain.

How long is this wicked chain?,

wait, I smell the marigold.

The scent opens my nose like a furious punch

and fills my soul, that empty cavern.

Warm thoughts soar through my head like a locust swarm,

and I don’t care about the blister.

A bubbling, painful, noxious blister

pops under the grip of the chain.

People scream and cry but can’t be heard inside the swarm.

Thank god for the smell of marigold.

It’s the small things that fill the deep cavern.

Wake me from this dreadful dream with a thunderous punch.

I miss the taste of great grandmother’s homemade fruit punch,

before the affliction of the blister.

The memories of my youth help board up the cavern,

and fasten it with my own special chain

scented in marigold.

I always try to tune out the swarm.

I wade through the humming swarm,

closing my hand into a fist on the verge of a punch.

I almost swing, but I remember her dress, the color of marigold.

The memories retreat from the looming blister,

they can hear the rattling chain.

I make sure they never fall into the cavern.

I never look too deep into the cavern,

For fear pulling out the swarm

And shattering my own good, strong, chain.

I try to drink store bought fruit punch

but I would rather deal with yet another blister.

at least I all I smell is marigold.

I miss the marigold. I hate the blister.

I love my great grandmothers fruit punch. I spend too much time looking at the cavern

And the lurking swarm, locked behind my beautiful chain.