Mortal Prose
The sibilant wind blows
over frosted shingles of cracked porcelain.
Passed chain link a fissured road
wends the dry creek of my mind;
downtown the stars are charted
at a four-way stop of plywood windows,
oxidized copper's turquoise matte.
The poetry of rolled metal
wheezes mortal prose among tall weeds,
the crumbling concrete of promises.
I see it all from my window as if in trance,
a séance with the clock ticking
lifetimes of stanzas in one minute
as a For Sale sign clanks its chant on the fence.
Memory's verses were shipped ahead,
away from draped shadows
of bloodless marquees.
Sweeping remnant words
is like herding tears found in shards
of a broken tea cup.
A hiatus appeared in life's narrative,
but syllables in the tome are my amulets.
2/21/19
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