by J. Teller
A red brick wall, the ground along it lined
with chips of brick; how came they in those piles?
Some fellow, pacing nervously, his mind
uncoupled from his restless hand, which files
and picks away, and ravages the wall
for which nobody cares, or reprimand
would reach who has the ignorance or gall
to wound the helpless brick with hurtful hand.
Or one who thought to be a sculptor; one
who saw the undistinguished wall and saw
a daring vision—which was scarce begun
when boredom interceded—or the Law.
And so despite my speculative tricks,
I end as I began—with broken bricks.
J. Teller is from Kansas, believe it or not.