The Possible Scientist
Who Reaches for a Comic Book Living

          Potential grows moldy,
          sitting in the open
          Obvious.  Ignored.
          Rust gathers from every being
          I've ever seen, spoken to
          They make speckled layers
          The barnacles could be plucked away,
          my rock polished
          I could make their eyes shine
          Bright and loving.  Proud eyes.
          But I want the air,
          roiling clouds to graze my skin
          raindrops sliding past me
          A slippery fate, destiny
          Unlikely.  Foolish.
          The right side has not decayed
          It won't be worn away
          Though I'll stay,
          a train on its track
          surreptitiously determined
          to reach my destination