Broken smokestacks


Washing up for dinner I thought of the old ruins,
Rusted steel twisted over concrete grown over again
With nettle,ivory thistle and honeysuckle green against
Darker shadows lurking no matter the time I would pass.

The little black dog limped into the kitchen just as
Pasta water set a boil,
Looking forlorn as though she had been into those shadowed
Crevices underneath broken smokestacks and found destitute

Rabbits eaking out their living chewing dandelion blooms,
Longing for suburban gardens which gave good cover because
Part time caretakers did not take care of their once hopeful
Plantings and those same milkweed thistles crawled over.

I asked the little black mongrel of her wish for this
Evening of solitude. She stared up blankly against my
Withering gaze, trying to filter the existential implication
For my line of questioning. Normal. Not normal. Hunger.

Often I find my stomach in knots thinking of that dead lot,
With it’s cold fencing, useless anyway, holes and poles
Flattened long ago for teens to smoke their weed and laugh
And grope in those dark shadows, finding love or something like it.


About Pitboss14

Cosmic surfer of paradoxes.
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