Parsley and Parsnip Soup

with every new dawn a bitter illness grows around
too many people hide in their bosom the shame
of being alone
the secret that they keep in a drawer
some old coins rolled in a handkerchief
threepenny opera for finger-pointed men and women

and the old maid believing that the world fell too much towards hell’s foundation/ and the dropout philosopher who drowns his illusions in mare serenitatis/ and the young man who thinks that life is a shit/ with his fingers oozing cheap tobacco juice/ and the young girl who stopped believing in poetry or gentle things/ because of a man wearing snakeskin shoes

we were all so tall and upright like doors made of beech wood
we danced with the wolves beneath the deep summer sky’s brim
but it was too long ago
we made paper boats from catastrophe newspapers
then we lay on the floor on our backs
we breathed like men do
we became stones washed by rivers and no one believed us

please madam chief nurse another serving of soup
it’s springtime at the poorhouse

Categories: My Poems in 2015, Uncategorized | Tags: , , | Leave a comment

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