Conversion
within a blizzard of faces,
somewhere in a catacomb of rectangles,
another when erodes into a financial if.
a conversion.
another two-legged sort of the six-legged slog.
columns, rows,
an obit haunts the face.
the cheekbones now like tombstones,
firm in the garden of compromise.
this whole city, long ago,
once celebrated petals
that starbursted into now extinct plants.
today,
just another pair of drained irises,
bobbing and crushed
in the Cauldron of Clocks.
outraged inside, true,
but still strait-laced.
calm-surfaced.
the heartbeat a riptide
sucking the heat back down.
a single cringing thought rises for a breath:
a middle class beggar
in a pressed wool yoke.
=======================
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment