dead telephone poles

only the telephone poles are still
lying on ground,

 

playing dead I think.
while,
Steinbeck raises dust on the back
of dreary prose
and throws letters like table scraps
at the cat. she prowls,

 

the night which hums
like streetlights
and shimmers on telephone lines,
(now erect)

 

and somewhere far away,
there is catshit
baking in someones
only pair of socks.

 

this though, is not the farthest
thing from sane.
but life, it seems, waits on no
lips fond or foreign.

 

Reviews

[The Autumn Faerie]

Very, very random, methinks.
Certainly different.
Kudos for that!