found print

Words like sand deposits,

moved in volumes,

as cheaply as wood chips,

the print paper is made of,

then handed effortlessly,

hard copies to soft women,

by short men with long words,

strung faster than lightning,

no slow sand in an hourglass,

the tested virtue of patience?

when time sunk in quicksand,

mirroring every poet’s life.

now writing hangs on clicks,

like cement foundation on silt,

hostage to eyes red,

but not read well,

like ghosts relaxing in moonlight,

as interest in poetry wanes,

and poetry becoming a species,

under threat of extinction,

like rats hiding in restaurant walls,

when chefs chase them brisk,

not as fast as poems are deleted,

for poets die faster than rats can run,

when food is at steak,

we broke poets do not eat,

exterminated instead,

like autumn leaves in piles,

swept by winds of indifference,

like eyes that no longer read,

the meaning behind words,

nor the ingredients,

that looks like poetry,

found by kids bored of homework,

worker at the recycling facility,

who sees the print,

when he runs out of cigarettes,

and forgets his fucking lighter too,

so he stops the machine and reads,

words doing wonders to his chest,

kicking him hard in the guts,

so he laughs and he cries,

before finally vomiting,

for the print is potent,

more painful than an injury,

caused by a snapped cable,

when a rib broke and he returned to work,

the four lines give him trouble,

more than his miserable wage increase,

worse than the cheapest beer,

not cold enough on Friday night,

more painful than watching his love slip away,

when his spine was straight,

and he stood a foot above her,

arms stronger than machine’s hydraulics,

remembering her weightless love,

so he stares at the words in disbelief,

feeling something new that is old,

absent of lies or empty hopes,

the ingredients are truly alarming,

or is it poetry?