The Broom In My Hands Poem by Eric Cockrell

we walk the edge of suicidal silence,
sweeping shadows beneath curtains
with brooms made of straw.
while somewhere soupbones
boil in the pot,
and the sound of coffee making
startles children's trains on tiny tracks..
the heroin news grates against the mind,
and dogs wait in silent anticipation.
Jesus dies again, a matinee,
the Bill Of Rights stutters
neath a thin layer of dirt.
travelling shoe salesmen grope lady's legs,
and old men on park benches
peer over bifocals.
the woman ironing, in her bra and panties,
quietly curses, with trembling hands!
bare chested men split wood in the sun,
while boys tinker on cars with oily hearts.
the soldier returned home to no home,
hangs himself from the rafters.
a picture of his baby boy,
falls from his pockets.
crows gather on a wooden fence rail,
the young woman lights a crack pipe,
staring at naked walls.
while dead bodies march in lines that rhyme,
with buildings left empty,
and mailboxes spilling over.
the soft silk of the thigh,
and the lip turned up...
names whispered and lost,
small rooms speak of distance.
be it love, be it madness,
the clock falls from the wall.
and nothing feels real....
except the broom in my hands!