Friday, October 17, 2008

poem

There’s an ambler in the atrium.
Have him finished, gentlemenly.
Yes, no more jackets for his wife.
American minutes aren’t that cold.
Make sure he doesn’t vouch things.
You mean these time cards? Yes.
There’s no gambler in the atrium.
An American translating vacuums.
Occasionally, something is lost.
It was as if I said what I meant.



    { fr. notebook

1 comment:

Brooklyn said...

I want to write this poem on a postcard and stick it in some rich old lady's mail slot.