04/10/20 Charlatan
There are days I can
smell the ozone
on my shirts
after pulling them off
the sun rack,
haphazardly,
on my way to another appointment
where no one brought a pen
and the handshakes grin with disaster
while time takes another
unclaimed piece of the pie
and
I
know
I’m dying.
There are days like that.
A better poet would find a charming way to tell you
you are under no obligation to count them,
or better yet,
do,
but know there is no one keeping the meter.
Hm…
Why would I burn an image
simply for spilling its secrets?
I’m not that charming anyway;
just a charlatan
dancing to an already broken song,
a solar flare from a long dead star,
and a mutable message