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Current mood:glad this poem seems to stick.
Mrs. Erckenheart is
screaming, perhaps
at the door of her villa -
inherited by the money inherited by -
She is screaming at the door.
Are things so simply made – that
she can only find them -
in their conception – as just things
with wings meant to fly the caretaker
so far north (to heaven) -
with no soul, no power, to hold
them fast to Valhalla?
I sit inside my room,
I have not [yet] lost my voice.
Voice, Words, Poems in the Tentatively Titled.
Copyright ©2008 The Off-World Bum Poet
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