socks
What’s
inside this morbid night
this bag of hair
this box of rocks?
What
hangs upon the wrinkled air
and slowly strangles
morning’s cocks?
What
wrings the wretched wet day’s rugs
and dribbles dampness
on the docks?
What
makes me sigh and wish I cared
about my failing
flaccid socks?
cae 2003 |