The Wreckage of an Average NightAnd 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
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Written on 2017-11-14 at 20:08
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