A Conrad Dimple Poem II

Joining the Colony
from the channeled spirit of Conrad Dimple

Spelunk,
spelunk,
I trod, then creep,
cursing those who wing
dank and dark.

Spelunk,
with headlamp
and string — strong rope's
for milksops and fops,
who venture not far.

Spelunk,
to where good stalagmite
receives my grip.
I worm my way higher.

Spelunk,
spelunk,
hooks pierce their slumber
so I may hang,
a mere but lofty man.

copyright d. dixon
01.28.2006