Read me, if you wish, like a two-fold pamphlet
handed out at street corners by children
forced out of childhood early, their eyes set
into surly orbits of need, desperate.
Patches of limp lines, thrust out as and when
the lights turn red. A stereotyped gimmick
thrown into cars caught with windows open
weird damaged overlarge wings in that traffic
light, and sudden fright turning to a quick
indifference, “It’s that same old thing again”.
Or read me like frayed love letters, blinking
between dusty pages. The books from when men
still wrote letters, fancy penmanship and ink
counted for, not much, but still worth something.
Pressed, not thrown. A shade of precious even,
preserved for a future nostalgia fix;
though the addressee didn’t know it then.
Or read me as I am, forget the tricks
of metaphor, of angles and semantics,just words written into verse and plain spoken.