Episode 3c: Portrait Poem

All’s still,

as a head cocks
       scanning debris:
wires jut from under a futon
and loveseat, from under
              the front and side
of a particleboard armoire ,
         the sides askew,

hollow corpses of clothing
     lie newly
laundered, an empty Jif jar
       biding its time
              until the spirit lands upon
a fat body longing
                     for the fridge.

Perhaps then,

throwing off an old blanket,
     tripping bare feet
       over soiled jeans,
he will stop,
       look back
              and spot the waste of a day,
of a life, the computers

bleeding. What shock
       could finally alter
              his lost mind,
                     entice him to face
this disheveled carpet,
raise his hand
to lift the husks of oranges, dripping.

email: PoetryPoemPome@mac.com
phone: 70 425 Poems

Click Here for the Audio



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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