Night moths whisper in
the ears of porch lights,
but the birch trees are porous,
unable to speak the language
The north side of the street
is the darker this evening,
but all dreams shimmy
without compass or stars
Kate Burkart’s kettle whistles
in her yellow kitchen as she waits,
but husband Ken is the drunk fish
on a street under a ragged moon
The singer’s dress is red, her voice
as blue as a scrub jay,
but scavenging for a bit of happiness,
he hears only her raucous song
All box cars move instinctively
toward different destinations,
but all women and children wail
at their humble beginnings
About Tim J Brennan:
Tim J Brennan's poems can be found at Whispering Shade, TheOriginalVanGogh'sAnthology, Handful of Dust, Talking Stick, and other nice places. His one act plays have been produced in Bethesda, Chicago, San Diego, and again, other nice places. Brennan resides in southern Minnesota.
I think this is my first encounter with a poem by Tim J. Brennan and I hope it's not my last.
ReplyDeleteSimply a terrific piece of work.
Took me right to a small town I loved many years ago.