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Time heals all,
so what the hell time is it?
Back east that is,
where men are women
and women are men
and
all
the
straight
people
are
crooked.

Where you can still hear
the church bells
ringing
on a Sunday morning
to herald the coming
of street walkers,
junkies
and other official personages.

Glistening phone booths
with broken windows
looking out over dogs
crapping on green lawns
beside the daily paper
whose news they can luckily
ignore.
No such luck for me
as I walk the subway stairs
to catch an express
to the oblivion of a condominium
complete with all the conveniences
you need
to accompany your madness.

Rescued in the nick of time
by another stabilizing episode
of your favorite sit.com....

Thank God
for the Fred McMurrays
of the world!
They help us all digest our frozen dinners.

This poem is Copyright © vryclver