Garbage trucks
Individuals
fail to stick in the city.
Spare
parts. The stickmen ponder
Vacuity,
nonchalant, counting down
The stare
of the distant disgraced moon.
Tin garbage
trucks scrape their way
Out of
this gaping grey skeleton,
The boundaries
of stink.
If we
remember our return tickets,
We could
watch the stickmen collect
And destroy
the core of our lives,
See it
crunch down to yoke.
This starving
mouth. Idle indifference.
These things
we think we don’t need,
But we’ll
dream of missing some day.
Copyright
Vickie Johnstone, July 22, 2020
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