Tuesday, July 10, 2018

Behind that telephone pole



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

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