He rat-holed dreams,
like waded dollar bills,
stuffed in
liquor-scented possibilities,
down-the-road,
one-day,
sort-of-schemes.
“Man cannot live by bread alone...”,
with emphasis on plurality.
Moths eat paper,
bread molds, and
down-the-road
was a “bed-n-breakfast” marker,
on a map he never owned.
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9 comments:
How are you churning these out day after day??
I close my eyes and type what I see. Scary isn't it?
What talented eyelids you have.:)
what images, and i love the ending!
Each line or two on their own do not seem to be going anywhere...but somehow by the end the poem you are able to generate the most unique and unusual emotions.
On a map he never owned. Can find myself on this one.
seems a lot of plans go like this - good capture Pat!
Excellent and heartbraking write.
How interesting each people's landscape and soul geography.
good one!
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