I look at you from across the road, and later from across the hall. Your black limousine looks like a hearse. Your tie is no better than a noose. That three-piece suit is only missing the zipper up the back. You sit on your plush leather chair in an office with your name stenciled on the door, in the same font they use on headstones. That liquor in your desk fills you up, makes you burn and kills your head, only a little slower than embalming fluid. Do you live in a skyscraper because you're afraid you'll never go to Heaven? I only look at you and wonder, will your coffin be silk-lined, like your bed?
Poetry. Or should I say, GOOD poetry, which is far more difficult to come by lately.
ReplyDelete