it’s everywhere

the highways are littered with
broken bottles and empty people

or, was it broken people
and empty bottles?
I forget

there’s no room in here,
for all your wanting

paper airplanes
hang like gliders in the paused breezes

the earthworms break the surface
and bloom into roses

parting rain clouds
leave panels of stained glass behind,
just floating there,
for all to marvel
at their prismatic splendor

the parks, bus stops, trains,
the stores, and everywhere else,
they’re all overflowing with
discarded hypodermics
and an educated proletariat

or, was it hypodermic education
and a discarded proletariat?

clearly, it doesn’t matter,
which end of the pipe
you try to put the stopper on

there’s shit pumping
out of both ends,
nonstop

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©2024 Kevin Trent Boswell