sitting on this bench for days
or months already, years?
there’s nothing of importance
and few things make us cry, it’s
neither warm nor cold, we don’t
get wet, the clouds keep moving &
Why shouldn’t they? you ask.
Again i have no answers,
haven’t barely heard the question
and it feels like we have never met, it
happened somewhere on the way
the traffic seems to make no sense nor
does it hurt ‘cos glass panes
hush the sound and graffiti on bus stop walls
tells stories no one wants to hear
We should’ve headed for the moon, i say,
you nod, or maybe rather for the sun?
he would’ve burnt us –
between passing cars sits silence, so
we keep searching mouse-grey streets
between Big Red and smoked down
cigarettes for common ground
and bowing low i start to fall,
watching the ants eat the last lonely crumbs
of summer and a blue wind
blows us cold..
let’s get poetic until the words drip from our hands, nose and ears in charcoal streams…and the place to do this is the wild winged crowd of kick ass poets over at One Shot Wednesday..so what are you waiting for..? sign up opens 5pm EST