Poem 73

An echo of my gasping breath came back from the canyon up ahead where the last hour of my life is waiting.
I think it was an E minor, or perhaps I am tone deaf and ken not the alphabet of sonic vibration.

A fudge sickle waiting on a bookshelf for me to come back from reading spoon river has been melted by the echo, ruining pages in a monogram of milk carton collages.
Well, I guess I should have gone in for the ice cream sandwich.

Rapid fire fears erased the daydream of motor biking through an autumn evening down a smooth street devoid of cars.
The echo awakened something enormous in the back left corner where my pedestal bearing god used to give me comfort.
And finally we confront ourselves in elevators going up and coming down, waiting to board and straining to disembark, listening and hoping it was the squeaking of the cables up above.


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