Flotsam


Does the skin need touch
To know that it's there
As the burning needs a flame
As the flame needs the air
As the air needs a whisperer
To calm the wild mares?

Outside the trucks are picking
All the used TVs that sprout amidst
The dew and frost of yawning streets
And sit with their forgetful stares
Craving a nostalgic hand to press
Against the glass and gently trace
The logos seared into the screens

In coming hours
Cheap abandoned condoms will be pecked at by crows
And passed aside as huge defective worms
I suppose
And those humourless birds
Will move on to the creature next door
Rolled into the bitumen
By one hundred wheels or more


#NaPoWriMo 2013 poem number 5

© Brendan Bonsack
April 2013