An Artisan
The persona is a bruise,
not a self. It builds
being via craftsmanship.
Structure covers lack
of formation—scaffolding
camouflages decoration.
The body ages, contains
something young—
in him performs
The play
of discipline and inspiration.
Calloused, grasping
Is now granting
shape: into fabrication.
Construction is cacophonous:
Beams pirouette
before steeling; a father
once latent, now testing.
Copyright © by Kevan Copeland
Waiting
The ceiling must contemplate spheres
orbiting my commotion.
Colleagues and I improvise
fluent choreography.
Patrons adjudicate; feed me
currencies I earn. Their appetite
for deliverance, I serve.
Yet performance doesn’t appease
past authority. Find something real.
As if what I balance were intangible.
Others say: find someone nice.
But I lack credentials to satisfy.
Sure, I save for building—but can’t buy
guys I deign to like.
Once, after unmasking, I exited
to moonlight in front; someone behind—
heard footsteps accelerate
in pursuit of my tips. His pacing dropped,
but I never stopped a life
of interminable racing—
when I’m not waiting.
Copyright © by Kevan Copeland
kevancopeland.com 