One More Box

Blip…Bleeeppp…Bleeeeep… Goes the plastic phone on the other side of a high plastic wall. The sounds of “Hello, You’ve reached..”, and “This girl last night..” on the other side of a song I swear-I swear then---is the best damn words ever sung. La da da dum, la da da dum....


But you know I don’t think in poems anymore.
Tha-tha-thought in that poetry so long.
Tha-tha-those secrets-
don’t match the same.
Quaint round little boxes,
magnificent lengthy columns. They tend to
make prophets
out of,
out of, ja-ja-just
magnificent Round things.

But then again, I am a liar too.

Blip…Bleeeppp…Bleeeeep… “I believe-
it’s called 2.1…”
when you seek to be-
the newest version
of the lasting installment.
When you’re walking,
(I’m only still
walking-
          beside the tremors here),
walking atop the SQUEEZED cracks on the asphalt.
My head makes cracks-
of heavy, soft, sweaty things.
And the secrets that felt
like thread, the 21 lies that come
each January-
to breed maybe,
only, there
where fingernails rub their fingertips;
Rub in circular needle-like tweaks, while leaning over the great puddle of street,
to the great wide w.i..n..d...
That moans of when it’ll crack us.
When it cracked us.



 

Daily headphones: "Braille" by Regina Spektor