Near the Station
Out on the green asphalt highway the trespasser rides
On a silver skateboard.
..into the unfettered calamity of modern commerce.
Without a question or doubt, his head turns
over the shoulder,
and looks backward into that contradiction of dawn.
A wretched metropolis of mazes.
Vying not what the others think, not even for a minute.
He haunts the back alleys on the border of the town,
near the station
Both his voice and the sound of his wheels are meaningless scraping tones: a chalkboard, one for
the quietest audiences.
He is his own poet, audience and critic, rolled into one with the best things left to sprite.
Without the best ones, he rides
with the best ones. He cannot wait for the prime moment, and so,
goes it alone.
On some crap left behind in a room:
Today, kiddies, we'll talk of the commonplace National Geographics
An ashtray, gathering dust on the shelves
Another mug of coffee in front of me.
A comic book, maybe a curled-up newspaper,
the sound of someone' s marching footsteps.
A saxophone coming, whining, through a T.V. speaker
Other publications of some of this work:
"Rust": December Poems (Self-Published) and www.poetry.com
"Ink": December Poems (Self-Published)
I like complete thoughts; I prefer singular ideas and impressions. As a result, my poetry and prose is short.