THICK, BROWN POEMS #16

Last Night.

Outside is warm and still.

The moon is out,

the clouds are making noise.

They make sounds like yawning caves,

releasing prehistoric fighter jets into the sky.

 

A light ticks on across the street.

A dog barks, and bugs ping off the security light like buttered hailstones.

Through curtains, past the roses,

I watch my grey street,

and smell the boredom.

I imagine all my neighbours in their boxes,

watching their boxes,

taking boxes out of microwaves and burning their ‘ah fuck!’

fingers on box cheese.

 

The light clicks off and all the yellow hails stones melt into the night.

Clouds slip across the sky and fall asleep among shallow mountains.

 

Tomorrow I’ll wake up to nothing, and forget all about today.

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