A used match, nestled in oddly speckled dust,
together with remains of food from the distant night before.
Scars of the house bleed out dying fires.
Beyond?
The portal to the world with vintage lights floating over
a neon green setting sun.
A shadowed forest creeps its fear to the tiled,
pot-holed streets of America.
A forged Impressionist, hanging proud in con.
What's this? Empty space.
Dotted blue square of nothing for anyone.
A Soviet spy in a frame looks over, watching
in the name of Papa Stalin, always!
A sketching elephant sits meshing colors and lines to art.
A bag sprawled with traveled clothes and wise literature
with stupid letters and words.
Some gifts from neighbors lay unopened, unappreciated.
Finally, wooden guitars wait to impress,
lay against the wall.
Rested but in a state of unrest.
No comments:
Post a Comment