the great poem, there is no milk in the fridge
and coffee is the mother of all metaphors.
Black coffee is fine for the ostinato
in my veins, but too bitter on the tongue
today for the merlot roots of rose taste buds,
so off to the store for milk and sidewalk
negotiations with apparitions
not written into my grand scheme of things.
A dog harasses his bored tail and barks barks
at his echo in the empty lot lot.
As I step carefully over his shadow
there comes a woman, child in hand, her eyes
meet mine at the corner of glance and pine
as her perfumed hair sails past my silence.
The low sun burns a maple silhouette
onto the bleary screens of my pained eyes;
bleated voices, hidden, call a blurred name.
At the store, a drowsy car coughs and farts.
I discover the shop is locked behind bars,
jailed for some holiday by gleaming grating.
No milk, no morning program, no grand scheme
in the dream of things, just a short walk home
stepping through the yapping shadows of a poem.
© Lorenzo — Alchemist's Pillow
|Photo: Leaf — © BogdanBoev at 1x.com|