Troopers, Scorching, Autumn

Watch the leaves, drifting slowly,

he always comes late, after dry

night dreams and cancerous cat

clamors, and the water stays the

same, and the boat remains adrift

and the paint the color of the ocean,

and the smells are always new;

 

he’s like that when he’s drinking: tall

and burning in the parking lot,

crying on the inside, washing his

moans in rum and whiskey, his

breath a sanguine portal, a missive

to the greater gods, signed in coal

and dashed out in haste, but it

never changes his gait: true-prosaic;

 

the leaves always collapse under

his feet, but the walkway stays golden,

he is Auden, he is Frost, his hands

drag along each side, his teeth cut

and his ears lowered; but this isn’t

a poem about being important, it’s

a song of the damned, and now you

are a part of the chorus, sing along.

 

I have poetry chapbooks, too. Six of them can be downloaded on Amazon. Click here to check them out.

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~ by Shawn M. Young on October 31, 2016.

One Response to “Troopers, Scorching, Autumn”

  1. Reblogged this on O LADO ESCURO DA LUA.

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