the trinketmaster

brilliance paints facade geometry a bit taller and facing east as hope crawls from its dens edged by dreamless sleep and hollow belly. an indigenous carving with china-made odds sits on sale amongst brittle wind-up detritus ordered upon a cardboard welcome mat.
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we stroll through lost in thought of the girth of childbearing and tiny toe morsels so unbelievably alive.
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we without thought cast lunch into the crumpled cap of the trinketmaster. he is asleep faceless and sunken into the shade of his chest and heavy concrete while the carving ungiven yet dances on one paw. it shrugs rare sun or common rain with dreams of altitude and shaping stone and clean forms of stories that outlast their vessels.
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but we forget these stories. we forget their weight upon the life of the next born and the trinketmaster still sleeps and we still stroll feckless.