Grasping fingers inordinately swing towards
Conscious displacement, tipping copper’s weight
Into family bones. Freeloader, ward
Your nervous habits, timelessness abates

Freeloaders dance. Upon your name, proclaim
Your way to fame, divining speciousness.
And -- freeloading, I digress.

Tripping fingers subordinately roam,
Never finding home, rambling stupidly,
Enthroned within platitudes. We groan,
with raptured religion. I decree

No more to load freedom with sloth, because,
Our thinking of what is owed us is flawed.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 4/6/05