Junk Talk Poet
Boots On The Wall - Poem by Junk Talk Poet
Tenement flats cloaked in darkness
Dank and stagnant and
Hardly a soul sleeping.
Even the wind upon the stinking
Bins rings like a band
Of percussion players.
Unending waves of conversation between
Waiting for the morning to deposit
Its coin, the monkey static,
Cymbals at rest.
Alone but for the boots upon
The wall, waist high and
A backstreet butcher itching to sell her meat
Haggard and old and hair upon lipstick.
Her face like an unmade bed
Creased and crow's feet.
She's got a barrel for your mouth
But her manners are mild and mindful.
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