Octagon Man (A Poem)

A man sits in an octagon,

sleeves of red, grey chest,

contemplating life,

on this one day of rest.

Concentrating on one of the eight:

how can they be so straight?

How can they lead to their successor,

so effortlessly surrendering to their fate,

to create a shape so whole and complete?

Wondering why life isn’t as easy,

why it’s full of wiggles and so often offbeat,

and bends, that lead to dead ends,

and undesired trends.

Wondering how a life can be

shaped into something so concrete,

like the octagon

that offers him a seat.

*

Blessings.

Gavin

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