Poem-A-Day: Day 54

Cane

Under certain ambiguities
the mundane of modernity
seems almost as refreshing
as the bottles that adorn the floor.
Glass of green and brown
casting twisted color shadows
as the light passes by
like a gentleman twirling his cane.
He whistles while he walks,
and works the crowd over,
six pence none the richer,
but damn does he look good.

I watch the shadows creep with time,
and they become cockroaches twisting
thoughts in my callous subconscious
conscious fervor forming thoughts.


I wish I had a cane to twirl.