The Scaffold

by November 5, 2015 0 comments

The scaffold screwed on
The stony wall of memory
Is strong enough.
Faces on the shelves
And laugh
Like mad men
Who often make me forget
And darkness,
The plants in my garden
Or, even
My pet dog,
Waiting for me,
He forgives my all tortures
But forgets nothing.
Grueling climbing
On the scaffold,
Reeks of lubricant.
The steel pipes creak
Even far away.
In my pocket
The smart phone vibrates
But I never shove my hand
Into it.
The garbage men
Move to and fro
On the street
Like ants.
They are burning
With the summer’s sun
On the dry paper
Of work.
I observe from the top
How all the streets crowd
Around the paper.

editors note:

Memory or imagination; both look the same on paper. – mh clay

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