chintz

I wonder if I've spent My time too cheaply Like the tchotchkes at Goodwill when Thrift was a boom A cast iron skillet, or a wooden spoon Or an old telephone gutted So Zeb could remount the bells So precious to him Especially The elegance of anything discarded And some mornings All the knicknacks creak And moan As a poem of some foreign language Built in 1960s figurines And ratty lampshades His old soul Dead too now, and found by His lonesome Rolling up the road On coffee cans and Garbage bags full of damp newspaper The sun rising Between grey walls Where the alleys intersect and it Radiates into the cobblestones each Bitter song held into the private night of those who sang Beneath it I wonder if I've spent My time too cheaply Like the tchotchkes at Goodwill when Thrift was a boom A cast iron skillet an old wooden spoon And some mornings All the knicknacks creak And moan As a poem of some foreign language Built in 1960s figurines And ratty lampshades Rolling up the road On coffee cans and Garbage bags full of damp newspaper The sun rising Between grey walls Where the alleys intersect and it Radiates into the cobblestones each Bitter song held into the private night of those who sang Beneath it All the knicknacks creak And moan As a poem of some foreign language Built in 1960s figurines And ratty lampshades Rolling up the road On coffee cans and Garbage bags full of damp newspaper The sun rising Between grey walls Where the alleys intersect and it Radiates into the cobblestones each Bitter song held into the private night of those who sang Beneath it