6007. MY PANTS ARE IN THE TOLL ROOM

MY PANTS ARE 

IN THE TOLL ROOM

My pants are in the toll room where they hold 

themselves for ransom  -  painter's loops and 

gunslinger eyes, a hook for a holster for a word 

to the wise. If everyone is scared all of the time, 

then no one is scared any of the time. I use that

as my parting couplet. I'm done.

-

Here is the seat where the magistrate sat. See how

the indented cheek-marks refuse to leave. What's

with that? All he did was shuffle papers while

I tried to talk, yes, even I, talking like a hollow,

couldn't reach his inner brain. He allowed us

to go home  -  but nothing more than that.

-

Before he came back he said he would 

call. No one mentioned to him that we 

had no phone at all.