Where did I put my Niche?
I can feel it bubbling, percolating within.
A wispy dream of the Elm Street variety, I'm sure.
My unbalanced mind swaying to and fro.
Is this all chance, endeavour, or exclusive for thee?
Macro images of flowers and insects abuzz,
their honey, incentive, so sticky and sweet.
Past exploits spring forth with stories untold,
will this dance now be followed or coldly ignored?
Some may have found this elusive well spring.
Still, my shadowy nemesis shall not be shaken.
Did I dispose of the keys before I began,
or leave them with Mary's three consorts for keeps?
I can see the lost orchard from this stricken mud bank,
where I flounder and flap and bake in the heat.
Dreaming again of mammalian glory,
will 'they' even be witness to my greatest of feats?
