Monday, January 19, 2009

Cold Concrete Floor

As I grow older
And my hearing starts to go
I find that more exchanges remind me of
Cigarette smoke.
Clouds of it.
A childhood in the legion,
Surrounded by the relics of the dead,
While, through grainy mic,
The auctioneer's booming voice
Sings out it's kinetic patter song.
And I sit there,
Trying to breathe.