Ibid
night swallows night under the
singing catacombs of unwashed sheets and passing trucks.
there never is a short conversation with the
lonely who tell there tales of how they have
everything except someone to love them.
there is a message in shoelaces,those that
are always untied
or
how doors are louder when they are closed.
they tell me others died so I could live,but I see
the open window and the line behind it
waiting for exodus.
I fight for a spot underneath the belly
of parked cars.....
as morning approaches my mouth explodes with a truth
that is too heavy to carry.
Copyright © Frank Penicaro | Year Posted 2010
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