Wednesday, November 23, 2005

small, sort-of-fun poem

Roach Motel

Crackheads tend to gravitate toward windows.
The rocks lie like paranoid schizophrenics.
A cop could be close to the wall with a can to his ear,
and these people never realize how depressing
it is when they hang blankets like thick curtains.
If he could nail his comforter to the wall--he would.
Keep out the light; keep in the smoke--too much
noise outside the front door--too quiet in the bedroom.
Pastel colored Cricket lighters piled on the floor
just dropped from their package close to the corner
by the couch near the hall. Crawl past the windowsill
on knees hunched over as to miss out on sunbeams
peeking in on the fun, nosy neighbors like nature saying
“I want some.” Freak for the fire--gotta grab a lighter--
how odd when they scatter like roaches in the dark.

1 comment:

teenagekicks said...

Nice one. Like the details about the cricket lighters.