The Wreckage of an Average Night

And through the lens of the telescope
the periscope, the microscope,
--Our minute observations,
Our terrible omniesient vision

Look! Oh look! In utter silence,
in the quiet, as if watching a silent film
only in vivid color

There's Mr. O'Rourke beating his wife
Through the binoculars.
She's screaming. Her mouth is wide open
but no sound comes out.

A child comes to her defense
smashing tiny fists into the brute's back
but he seems utterly unaware.

We watch without human feeling. We shrug.
Bridgette Kellman prepares for bed.
Cathy O'Malley talks on the telephone
Her endless jabber.

Crying children, what are they to us?
From this lofty vantage point
All the helpless ones

Bottles breaking on the street
On a sea of troubles--
Tumored fish floating on their sides.

All the casualties of our sordid, small lives
Broken condoms, breaking glass, muffled sighs
The wreckage of an average night

Mr. Adams on crutches at the vacant window
staring out in his underwear.

Poetry by Ashe The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 220 times
Written on 2017-11-14 at 20:08

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Explains an average wreckage of a city night. I like the descriptions and the images. Nicely done!

Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Nicely done, Ashe. That's life in the city. You just don't contain enough compassion to care about everyone, and you don't know most of these people, anyway.