An Audience With Impermanence

 
Single moments stream into my…  well,
into my tin cup, which dreams of
rattling cages.

I slam down the turmeric shades;
they crack underfoot. They’re broken
anyway, bitch!

Over and over, I stride into the middle
of the last room with stuttering windows,
and two stopped clocks.

I put the cup to my lips, drink dust.
I gulp in coughs, grope the shades back on.
Knock ‘em dead, Tak.

The sunrays hit specks of amber-bright.
Single moments stream into
my tin cup.

Gimme a minute, here…







Many, many thanks to Miss Indie for the fabulous reading of this.