|
by Charles Carreon
It's a new season,
a break in the weather --
I look through a window
And breathe in the blue.
One dead end behind me,
A mind that can't find me,
An old bag of bones on a bench.
Saints get the run-around
With their ears close to the ground,
And their noses to the grindstones,
They're flunkies,
Hustling for a buck in a company town,
Where the demons flock like shadows
When the sun goes down.
Outside the window
There's a cool moon rising
Outside the window
There's a lone cloud drifting.
Stars come out, one by one.
Return to Table of
Contents
|