Short Sprocket Poems

A chance for life and risk of death in my left pants' pocket,
A photo of my first love in my make-belief locket,
While living my own life on the edge just like a sparkling sprocket....

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There is a young man called Alan Sprocket
Always has both hands in his pocket
Said it keeps him calm and warm
So why is he a twitching form
As though his fingers were in a socket



Penned 25April 2015...

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I have seen plenty of things never been experienced by an alive eye socket.
I have been through the struggle of filling my empty pockets.
Call me a sprocket.
But I have valid questions.
Like, when will our country restore its status as food basket?
When will I have fresh water in the bucket?
When will I have my next brisket?
With the above granted I will very jubilated like a player who has found a wicket.
How I wish I played cricket....

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We see them in old movies,
aged sitcoms –
black and white
or fading color.

We hear ancient languages—
dead voices on sound tracks,
buried giggles, awkward squawks
of unexpected laughter.

We relish corpses—
old friends,
remembered relatives
stiff in brown photographs.

Reels creak, VHS tapes moan,
DVDs hum silently 
with sprocket holes, 
white scratches in sky,
burnt nitrate edges of night.

We relish corpses.

They are us....

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