John W. McEwers
Froth Of The Corn Field - Poem by John W. McEwers
Love needn't comfy sheets
even if you have the sheets
there's no sense in laying them down
in the dusty bowl of love.
Clear a spot, hack the stalks
and feel the rip of the husks
against your skin.
Pulverize the earth beneath you.
Do you want to be remembered?
Act like it.
Or follow the coding, I suppose,
and wrestle with the bow tie knot,
fork over your milk money for milky skinned
petals, already cut and dead.
Perhaps trudge along under the marquee
in line with the rest of the silent faces.
Just understand, you're not the star anymore
in the age of the talkies.
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