Broken Conversation on a Thursday
Poetry
I heard a saying
that involved a
filthy heart.
Not a silken twine.
This dirt is terrifying
like Rosemary’s Baby.
The argument with
an old broken man.
He was a
sanctimonious mapmaker.
Detached by a string of
upbringings that
refused the puppets
a space to join.
He walked away from me,
just like that.
His errored verbiage my
self-righteous joy
in this Jupiter moment
of eclipsed clauses.
Fragmented and conditional.
In the middle.
This emotional winter,
a season of three days that
disturbs as much as indecent
as uncared-for fingernails
on a coffined corpse.
Entertains hysteria on the inside.
Cold judge. Unforgiving.
You want this to go well.
There is no chance
for this amateur Magician.
Cheers to another Tower.
This stray cat
with runny eyes
and a bluish heartbeat
comes to my rescue.
We remain grateful as
hope is the final anarchy.
Today is another escape.
