Categories
Poetry

BORED LOTS

Bored, board some train of thought,

destination unannounced. Reality

creaks across TV backwards,

competing with, out in parking lots,

lots and lots of harlots. The phone rings;

pick up; some dumb whore

screeching in my ear I must buy more.

Hang up, sure as hung up I am

on combing through the honey of yet

a bit more money. Ask myself,

gazing out the window at birds

jerk worms from the grass: That phone

on the TV, inside me, nextdoor to insanity

or some other not quite reality

passing now by? Onto the

screen leaps a guy

training on me a gun.

This a problem, evil about to be begun,

or the answer to nothing better to do?

Recall then for a bit of peace and quiet

I am so long overdue. Snap in the horse’s mouth

a bit like the buy the whore hot to sell.

Cramming everyone, even a bored me,

onto this winding train

huffing and puffing straight to hell.

Why, oh why, if our lot be suffering,

must it be a lot of suffering?

And the dumb whore turns to me,

into myself dumbly turning.

Willie Smith

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