Behind that telephone pole
I see the
fading blue
It is 9:24
pm and the horizon
mirrors its summer
orange on
the grey
prancing clouds
Zoom back
and the old neighbor
treads calmly
by
holding an
AM radio
close to his
right ear
An ear
that has
heard a million voices
and has seen
too many faces
Behind that
telephone pole
The wind,
cool, picks up now
through my
hair they brush rhymes
of laughter
forgotten melodies
of hymns
chanting
from the
sacred ancient land
they call my
home
Behind that telephone
pole
It gets
dimmer while the lamppost
turns on a
jet plane slashes
the evening
tone and a swept crescendo
flies you to
an ovoid sphere
of expired
dreams and extinguished libido
Behind that
telephone pole
