The Sound of Horns Blaring into Black

Did you hear about the one who laughed?
The one whose shape resembled a woman?

“No. What happened?
I was battling fiction,
listening to music,
drinking beer,
chewing over life’s meaning,
procrastinating the dog’s bath.”

She had a black rose tattooed on her left shoulder,
a gambling habit that would make Wild Bill shudder,
couldn’t eat potatoes because of vodka nights,
could crush a mammoth’s skull between her thighs.

“Interesting. Then what?
Wait, don’t tell me.
I don’t have time to listen.
I have to change the litter box,
light a cigarette,
open more beer,
let the music drown out the sound.”

But what about the one who laughs?
A sound she has patented as a craft.
She waits for your next calculated step.
Next to your soul, her shadow has crept.

“What about the one who has to live,
blocking out laughs and smiles,
knowing only dust and frowns?
The one eating hotdogs in Cheyenne

as the howl of emptiness echo
throughout equivocalness?”