A tiresome lexical reliance
stands me in the forum
facing east
waiting for the sun.
It’s Tuesday, and the bus route
breaks at 10:24 so,
trend me such a poetic offering,
the walker journeys
past an asphalt desert
taking me here,
like Perseus only
not quite so attractive
or good.
Destined to
hear the voices
in the magic box and
radio.
Begging to be told what to do,
my cover letter says brightly,
“Slave,”
make sure to give him a cookie
and whip, salad extras with
carrots and
sticks or
avoid your neatly sealed
word revolt
plague pit because
hey
it’s just a poem
and I
a poet.
