cough

There is a man
penned high up on
a balcony on Whitfield Street and
his cough punctuates each
morning. From shadows, exclamation marks
stab and ellipses hurtle, scattering
like buckshot on blueblack
tarmac at my feet.
I wonder, does typography intrude
on others’ dreamscapes? Hacked
commas and spat bracket
shells to detonate slumber. And
who inside has turfed him out? Daily
ritual of a spent baritone isolated,
shelving time, excoriating himself while
she (?) indoors sighs
Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s