The Reverberation of Amusing Animals

Bleak conversations over coffee
to a shadow that’s not even me.
The dome on it is plagued, slumping
shoulders stares at the concrete.

It recognizes god’s bouts of solitary
confinement
while I wait for a Caribbean schooner
to usher me away from violent frenzies.

I wasn’t made for waiting around,
listening to omnipotent answers
to sinister questions.

In the murky swamp of my reality
leeches give me the news of trombones
playing for dying, egotistical, crickets
in an alley south of the Mason-Dixon Line.