Gathering heaps of dust.
Sloppy, slippery globs of oil.
Crushed aluminum cans,
tons of twisted steel and rust.
Old newsprint, tattered
magazines piled in a corner
of the room. Ears filled
with discordant sounds
of loony tunes.
Junkyard dogs are barking
in the middle of a restless
night. Moonlight is beaming
bright.
Aching oceans of old men’s
arthritic bones sailing past
broken windows. Weeping
widows hum misanthropic
melodies into the ears of
wayward Argonauts.
You’re fed up with the way
things are, have somehow
misplaced the keys to your
flat-tired rent-a-car.
It’s midnight at the Oasis and
the Keystone Cops are knocking
at your door. It’s hard to believe,
and weird as it seems, life for you
has taken an ugly turn.
-30-
Chris Hanch 1-4-2023
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