Jobbing Poets
I recall an earlier city than this,
that smaller metropolis had to be
plugged into black handsets for distant listening.
Often, I think that his city is a concrete megaphone,
one we have made from fabricated conversations.
Denizens daily must recycle themselves,
with ever louder words.
A few artisan poets,
with their mortar and spades,
grout the cracked and leaking windpipes,
hoping to calm the roar of a casual chitchat.
They labor on, to shore-up crumbling words,
before they all unplug themselves
from silence forever.
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