Bailey

Root sum of the east

Plating his mustache with an air of efficiency 

Standing guitar ready to play, black leather jacket has seen better days 

He takes his breath, starts to sing a tune that summons

Ideal of summers warm like lime cordial long since past, winters chills that sends shivers that last

The people come and find his song, travel with it to this pretend land long gone

Walls that build a civil society above the sky looking at the land below. A vision of perfection

A mouse sends postcard from the wainscoting, telling us of all his shopping. Is this another story? Song? Or are we asleep.

We feel but meek. Weaker and poorer and happier, as we realize how perfection isn’t meant to last

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2 thoughts on “Bailey

  1. This poem is beautiful ! I don’t know if you ever heard of the grateful dead but for some reason, this poem made me think of jerry Garcia from the band. I love that you paint a picture in your poem 🙂

    Like

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