Antonio Banderas writing poetry in the sun
Curled black hair and wires coming out his ears
This was the end of poetic art
Singing reggae music.
The fool had found his stump
Walked up and crunched in
On a blind wagon train
Looking at an orange parking cone on top of a mobile home
It was a miracle.
He breathed in a yellow bicycle helmet and sat alone
A live tree reached out to him
Leafless and kind
Alien lampposts watched over him
And little purple flowers said hello from January California ground
There really is nothing wrong
Banderas thought
It's not my job to save the world.
I'll just stare into this computer screen
And exhale the universe
No comments:
Post a Comment