Plop
A Rorschach inkblot appears on the cement before me.
I veer to avoid the disgusting mess.
Weirdly white for a germ filled poop,
I fail to find any meaning or truth in its shape.

………….Plop
Another shape appears before me.
Soon I will have trouble making it across the parking lot
without soiling my shoes
and smearing whatever truth the shape reveals.

………………..Plop
Holy shit.
This is no longer a test of my psychological health
but a challenge to my agility and endurance.
Can I see my future in this new shape?

………………………Plop
The flock of pigeons meander aimlessly
collectively disregarding yellow lines
and celebrating random trash.
I envy their unthinking acceptance of themselves
and the explicit “fuck you” they leave behind.

………………..Plop.           Plop.
……….Plop.          Plop.
What is the shape of my future?
At this rate I won’t even make it to the Walmart.
On cue, the flock lifts in the air,
chubby and short-legged while grounded
now gracefully dancing in flight.

Mary Barbara Walsh is a teacher, a philosopher of politics, and a poet. Her research has been published as articles in numerous academic journals and chapters in scholarly books. She has just begun to express her narrative and poetic voice.