SENTIMENTAL HATTER,
BROKEN HOURGLASS
IN HIS HAND
I am hearing things that make no sound.
I am seeing things that do not exist.
The dark and spectral, that ghost
in town, is making me nervous with being.
I should have left here long ago.
A curlicue of cigarette smoke wrangles
its way past my face. I want for nothing,
I settle for less.
-
There are old pictures on the wall -
some crummy, stub of building and bricks,
which used to be the post office, an old
hardware store, shown here on a dirt-
covered road with square, dainty cars.
It's all labeled as 'used to be here' -
whatever such a foolish phrase would
mean. Like God, Uncle Charley, or me.
I should have left here long ago.
BROKEN HOURGLASS
IN HIS HAND
I am hearing things that make no sound.
I am seeing things that do not exist.
The dark and spectral, that ghost
in town, is making me nervous with being.
I should have left here long ago.
A curlicue of cigarette smoke wrangles
its way past my face. I want for nothing,
I settle for less.
-
There are old pictures on the wall -
some crummy, stub of building and bricks,
which used to be the post office, an old
hardware store, shown here on a dirt-
covered road with square, dainty cars.
It's all labeled as 'used to be here' -
whatever such a foolish phrase would
mean. Like God, Uncle Charley, or me.
I should have left here long ago.
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