Empty house and the
Incandescent bulb burning
Without purpose.
There's a stool. Two shoes,
That avoid eye contact.
An old telephone hanging
In the air by the spring-cord.
A man past his fifties has
Cut his face in half, holds it,
Like bowl of soup- to search
Meaning of life with a spoon.
When the only conversation
All day has been a dry fart
In response to a cold sigh.
The loneliness like a-
Drop of sweat goes down
The trails of his spine to talk
To someone- only to get
Choked in the ass.
Alas! Hips.
Why can't you talk?
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