Crossed lines,
shattered through names
and places,
a noun deleter,
wielded by an illiterate hulk,
solely bent on arriving at the
bar, before eleven.
A second look would have
provided a clue,
to the proper domicile,
eagerly awaited by the lonely
shut-in,
only too happy to receive
anything with her name on it.
Instead, reconciled to a tray,
covered in dust,
coffee stains and huge indifference.
the tray might sit there for
three months or more,
until noticed by a new face
with something to prove.
All hell would break loose
and Satan himself would be
summoned and interrogated,
as to why hundreds of trays
had been abandoned in a
corner,
waiting to be sent back to the
original owner.
A whip would crack and
someone would appear to
turn on the machine and
wade into the unlit pyre.
Eight hours a day, for weeks
on end,
the humming and clinking of
the machinery,
lulled him into disaster-stricken
daydreams,
filled with roosters, horses,
coffee stains and so much
love,
addressed to someone who was
no longer there.
MCC
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