Half bored, half fascinated, he said.
In a dapper suit awash in a sepia-tinged
unreality. A bit naive, but not incautious
so the ominous fizzled out. As if
the world would be saccharine.
But then there’s this other guy, older,
poorer. I’m wired to him, his blue
eyes, and failing eyesight.
Someone read him the riot act.
Under the dusk sky he hummed,
“‘Twas in another lifetime one of toil and blood
When blackness was a virtue, the road was full of mud
I came in from the wilderness a creature void of form
“Come in,” she said,
“I’ll give you shelter from the storm.”
“Write a wire poem. A wire poem could be about something that needs wires–like maybe a robot, TV, or automobile. But birds huddle on telephone wires, people wire money to each other, and kids can get wired off of too much candy and/or caffeine. In fact, I’m surprised I haven’t written more wired poems over the years.”