Updated: Jan 1
a poem about a washer filled with thoughts passing through my brain...
tomato light bulbs in the window,
a string of red lights,
cur-tailed by two blue curtains
falling from the ceiling begging for attention.
a bear walks in and orders a beer.
red, yellow and green coats
and the grey slush outside echoes.
noise materializes and passes by
over frozen rain.
or they enter the room.
signs on tables
carved by sisters and brothers
spinning on black leather chairs.
at the bar, a red lamp
with holes in her shade.
when the light escapes
she goes for a hike
on a path through the forest:
bunny and bird,
followed by foxes and flowers.
they die in their painting, they dry on the wall
and the man with the moustache
is still talking about a chance hadn't taken,
while the barmaid polishes silver and gold
offering a beer to a green coat.
how many planks can you walk
before your shoes wear out? and
where’s the exit when there’s no way out?
(written in Toronto 2014)