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January |
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a poem by Joanna M. Weston (1 of 2)
CURB-SIDE VI
old valentines and torn newspapers
become wrap for Friday's fish
eaten with vinegar and curses
on a moving bus that farts toxicity
the elderly woman gets off
and staggers to the curb
clutching at tail-lights
wanting to hide them in her pockets
and keep them for cheap chandeliers
when those frigid midnights
double fear of incandescent hydro bills
and pension cheques minimized
by a government that increases bureaucrats' pay
French fries melt in her toothless mouth
and her shoes dissolve in the gutter
become wrap for Friday's fish
eaten with vinegar and curses
on a moving bus that farts toxicity
and staggers to the curb
clutching at tail-lights
wanting to hide them in her pockets
and keep them for cheap chandeliers
double fear of incandescent hydro bills
and pension cheques minimized
by a government that increases bureaucrats' pay
and her shoes dissolve in the gutter