Clean

Heat of street lamps on cold blacktop. A fog of white billows dancing their way lethargically out of underground sewers.

Waves of Spring time insects skimming across warm puddles.

Night aromas of June.

Laundry.
Gasoline.
Sewer.
Alcohol.

A symphony of Spring echos.

Domestic abuse.

Filth of tears and childhood neglect.

A fire escape closing.

Barking dogs.

Cats in the trash.

Jitter of rats.

Footsteps briskly passing by.

Murmured voices.

A clicking bulb trying to light.

In the dripping curb is a body.

Beaten.
Broken.
Bloody.
Betrayed.

Fingers clenching for a gun. Its not there.

Searching for a wish.

To end it all in one glorious bang. Blood rushing down the street for the children and milkman in the morning. A wound for the passersby to throw change in

A temple to those who suffer.

Reality is getting up.

Cleaning blood and filth.
.
Doing the same routine.

Until then end.

When the great creator himself will snuff their life out.

Triumphantly.

In a suit.
In a hat.
In fresh polished shoes.
With a show to go to & a
pretty woman at their side.
Clean.
Unembellished though, not quite whole.

Reviews

[Mark]

The brain creates this illusion of rationality that even when we know it for what it is, can hold us tight.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

not quite whole but surely happier than in life.

I like the double meaning of "Temple" in this poem.
you create a setting and I went right along with it through the entire poem.

I was walking down that same street...marvelous description...no gun, but a figurative suicide all the same...
great write, Ranger...
this made my morning.

j.

[Ranger Kessel]

Thanks you for the review

[Chris Shaw]

There is alot of murk here, alot of filth. I try and stay away from it, but it's there and some have to deal with it every day. Very creative and laden with dark imagery. Good job done.

Chris

[Ranger Kessel]

Thank you for the review