Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Monday, June 15, 2020

Sonnet #299

I mow the grass, and grass regrows, and grows
We dust the furniture of course, we must
And sweep, But next week there’ll be more dust
And I plucked the rose and placed in vase but the rose

Will wilt the week away, and die as plain
To be replaced again by next week’s rose
And all the furnishings will wear in my repose
Where my body presses down and causes strain

We wear down, we wear down, we wear all the way
In factories workers walk into fire dressed like spacemen
At home they shower off the sweat and hear radios play
The music plays a song and plays that song again
That brilliant singer travels to another town to play
And every week we raise a god from death in bread and wine

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