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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