All it took was a misplaced word
to ensure the sparks flew,
and where they fell, the fires
quickly created backdrafts.
This entire city was under our palms,
our hands, however, struggled to hold a drunken
balance.
The concrete blocks slowly eroded,
almost in tandem with the surrounding
trees now surrendering to October.
The leaves of dry paint and rot created
a snow scene amongst the tagged
and broken fences in our wake,
our lazy hands now grateful for the labour.
Our feet hammered upon the pavement,
the shadows of closed shops store
our yells that drench out the falling
glass, which splintered our fingers
for decades to come; the sirens
fail to deafen us, as it became apparent
guilt is the last and the only emotion we lack.
Jonathan Butcher has had poems appear in various print and online publications including, The Morning Star, Mad Swirl, Drunk Monkeys, The Abyss, Cajun Mutt Press and others. His fourth chapbook, 'Turpentine' was published by Alien Buddha Press.
He is also the editor of online poetry journal Fixator Press.
No comments:
Post a Comment