Scrap Yard Dogs Bark
Jeff Bell
Elegant, lithe and alive, only air conditioning broke
the silence of sleep. These time given fragments,
silent as mosquito drawn blood. Yet today tastes of storm,
with need to cover skin, as water melon dreams,
tell of hard winter to come. And so many seeds,
knowing each with luck could be, but discarded, made refuse,
maybe even incinerated by now, not a chance, like so many,
as care is always in such short supply.
And in knowing each moment will always race away,
desire and sympathy try their best to halt time.
All memories are real, but none can see them
just you and I, so what do they mean,
is then forever too short?
Or maybe the second is just all there is?
If so, then all has past, as with this too.
White wine thrown, relaxed, as never to stain,
lack of contact and words, their oncome signal the end.
But even in this silence, listen! Canīt you hear the noise?
In isolation thereīs irritation, and moving forward always
the guarantee of friction.
Scrap yard dogs bark at the end of each day,
protecting nothing much, until tomorrow,
as we all do.
