Published at 29/09/2024 18:46
Created at 02/01/2024
109 words - 0.55 min of reading time
Poetry
Be tasked, authorized
To spaghetti all my words.
I don't care much what you do
With the seasoning,
With the cooking point.
I was listening out there,
On the street,
To some sound of the ice cream truck, of the garbage collector;
And it seemed much more interesting to me,
And with much more meaning
Than my words.
It was so far away, the sound of trucks shouting,
And yet it seemed much nearer, more human, and necessary,
Than whatever I could say,
And whatever people could insist on hearing.
For they all need either ice cream,
Or to have their garbage collected,
And none of them need me.
