  |
 |
|
AFTER STRAND'S "THE MILKMAN" by C E Chaffin At my oaken desk I scratch the hieroglyphs by which I might be saved; Isis and Osiris don't give a shit. I fold my papyrus into a plane, all my history coded, so much work. I toss it out the window's dark throat, it beaks across the moon. I can't see it land, it's so dark I feel whiter than a lunar sea. Come morning comes a knock. A boy with a paper plane says, "Here, Mister, it didn't fly too good anyway." Inside my opus is reduced to this: "You shall live by inflicting joy and be misunderstood; the worthy shall forgive." © C E Chaffin « Home | Contributor Notes » |
|
|
|