Written by Craig Kirchner
They stare across the azaleas
and gated bridges, over surrealistic tolls,
to an aluminum-sided me,
remotely landscaped far from the bars,
roaches and drive-by, from the back-alley fights.
I’ve morphed it now to dangling bluegrass,
upper-middle pride, while homeless
hang-withs, yesterday’s melodrama,
wave black remorse, belch cheap wine
and scream goodnights from the rodent-crested blight.
Aloof, elite and smug in button-down,
buttoned-up exile. Snug, tranquil, as stacked,
trophy wives, dressed to the nines,
stroke grey-concrete from Kierkegaard cashmere,
from Poloed and limp veneer.
And then it grows – the dull nausea.
It gulps its guarded dirty martinis,
at charity’s open-guilt bar.
Stiff in the corner it prays for peace,
from numb and impudent retreat.
Text © Craig Kirchner
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