A lamppost named Mark pt: II.

read full Lamppost Poem, in order

 

II.

“You’ll never catch me alive, coppers,”

a composite ill-suited to this serial town,

the Lamppost hobbled to the crossroads

and held out his thumb to flag the hovering night-train.

How much time,

how much one-eyed time.

 

On the darkest of nights as the moon first waxed,

the Lamppost could not see the man wearing all black.

With a rose et al. law-stick, the lamppost’s arms froze to the crosswalk

— the poor, poor, half-blind lamppost,

you know he was born with only

how much time.

 

And that was the end.

 

—Unless I’ve misremembered,

which happens now and then.

 

 

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