Trapped in Joe’s Shirt Pocket
Eight poets aching for sun
(Class in Ford Hell)
Square block, black and gray floor locked
A red light dungeon, candle dark neon danger
Dollar bill flat frogs hang iron chained
Like Escher wall coverings for the mentally unwell
Riveting me to a garden green Tantalus chair
Eyes ever searching, returning windowless
To eight poets aching for sun
One watch watching
Smiling face timing minds
Testing poet speed traced in an underground particle chamber
Accelerating minds
Tracking lap times, leap frog mental jumps
follow Frisbee neon bright thoughts.
Two poets accelerated to thought speed
Swollen heads collide spewing poetry
Like frog guts on the sidewalk
Other poets analyze
Dissect remains, pick at parts
While my carcass whiles away
Now nervous feet twitch with the rapid-fire ta-taing
Of one watch watching, waiting
Recording to later re-record
As canvas boat shoes begin to splash
In dark blood dragging time from open wrists
Whiling more, a while later
Splashing ceases
With a red-green Christmas color croak
As time runs out to escape
Frogs and watches with flushed faces
Face to face
Trapped in Joe’s shirt pocket
~ by Peter N. Liptak
If you fancy this poem share with a friend, (or a foe… you never know) so that others might stumble past — ’TIS ALL THE FASHION!
From feast to famine, a poets line is thin. Follow my lean lead, come walk with me in wonder, then, if you will, PUT THE CASH IN!
No Paypal account is required. Poets must eat… AT LEAST A RATION!?
Ok, coffee will do. Pay a Pal, Pay a Poet, Pay Pete
And for your fill of rhyme, scroll to PetethePoet and splash in for a poem or two.
