This Poem

This poem sits silent
while I quench the thirst of
ten thousand years,
or what seems so, days doppelgänging
more nights than year’s have time
to spend.

This poem has nowhere left
to journey,
no bottom-shelf literary magazines
to submit itself,
no captive audience to hear the
silence of its absence.

This poem, a battered old mattress;
a motel with vacancies,
flaunting free HBO and an
ice machine to chill away the long
hot hours ahead.

But no one drives past this highway any
longer, and these days this poem
flashes its phosphorescent lights for
none but me.

Categories poetry, Uncategorized

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this:
search previous next tag category expand menu location phone mail time cart zoom edit close