A curly corded telephone rings in a distant room,
its black Bakelite bulk vibrates behind closed eyes.
An old-time fire-engine parks its flame and brass chassis
inside a cavernous skull, though no conflagration
sets the dark alight.
It is that shallow pit of night when faceless clocks
expose themselves to be landmines.
A far past is calling; disembodied tongues drum loud
above the rattle of a tin ear.
A cumbersome receiver tumbles off its cradle
an accumulated dust of misappropriated yesterday’s
softens its fall.
Nothing has grasped at nothing.
A line is dead and buried; there's no resurrection,
the call however lingers, as a voice dissolve's
deep within the combustible light
of another day.
CHIMERA OF GRANDEUR
Sheriff Barney had false swagger of air,
a braggart with chimera of grandeur,
skilled winner of women’s heart
couldn’t play well the lover’s part,
songs of romance fell flat on his tin ear.
February 12, 2019
Syllable count : 10/10/7/7/10
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