Visions of the evergreen speak clarity
to you, the sun pouring over Seattle
cement like honey, the I-5 congestion, toxic like
fire eating cardboard, mice hide in your walls and as
you speak they climb
out of your eyes.
Meanwhile my radio dial is transfixed like Sauron
on pop-music misery, tobacco stains on these turn-hugging fingers,
the Patriarch smiles from his landfill Sinai, acting like
a fool I do for you.
And when we're alone the
angels weep all sentimental,
the demons they jump
from their bar-stools, winged
piglets around us are silly games,
our souls in the shuffle only a game
too.
So then, reader, I have a question.
What do we do with Indian Elephants
stuck in our parlor rooms, too small to
eradicate, yet too large to let be?
"Partners in Crime" take note.
No comments:
Post a Comment