mamie jones was a sober sort
the kind who always held the fort
she lived next door to phil smith
whom no one wanted much to do with
mamie lived on a small pension
and had a short span of attention
phil was a dreamer
a sad inadequate schemer
they both tried to stay the course
as impersonal historical forces
whirled them around like balls of dust
in the law of gravity they placed their trust
mamie looked out the window at the moon
phil hummed a subliminal tune
in the clutches of the international spiders
and latte-sipping low riders
a trillion messages from space
bounced off their upturned faces
but black was the sky
to which they had no reply
they never knew reach others names
which some might think a shame
but no need to cry
in the whether no why
No comments:
Post a Comment