Your Poetry Dot Com - Out Back of the Restaurant

No finite stove
Ended at the chimney’s crest;
This was a vestibule
Open and easy, where one might tool
For hours, one like Kris Kringle
Might loiter and mingle.

Overflowing in a challis
Is a cup of smoking malice.
It looks like dry ice,
And confirmed is that effect --
To a tactile vice.

Out back the dumpster,
Is some cavernous carrion
That will laugh with ribs,
That will tarry on,
Yet it will still be used up
After enduring a bludgeon;
For, a cat can no longer afford
To be a curmudgeon.

Around the bend,
Leftover meats like tomatoes
Were julienned --
And strewn about in humidity
As if painted by Dalí
And wilted in the randomnity
That subscribes to no folly.

Even for a decisive Pollyanna,
There is a chill atop the wind;
Even for the man of wanderlust
Who chases blindly each gust.

And the slightest vagabond
Is not even fond
Of his defiant laughter,
Which flits uncomfortably in and out
Of a tremulous rafter.

He takes a long drag on the charred cigarette of winter.

Even having abandoned these lodgings,
There are harder dodgings.

There is a chill in the air
That prickles long-inert hair.
Pity the young and naďve
On such a ruthless eve.

Yes, I see rice paddies and imperturbable peddlers.
There are silver-lined caddies who began as meddlers,
Their iron clubs sticking out at fiddlers.
The irony of their clubs brushing ‘gainst diddlers

Rekindles a swindler.

And some neon lights paroxysmal
Float into a reflection abysmal --
Down into a sewer,
Where a grower
Has retired as a brewer.

A valley ensues a peak…
Sally is stalked by a freak.

There is discomfiture
When anyone attempts to forage
For a home of self-storage --
And finds it occupied
By detrital tide.

The street is dented with potholes
Full of voles
Full of ineluctable pratfalls
Where a rat falls
Albinism still touts it
Once pure.

This poem is Copyright Â© screwge