curb-side conversations and nothing is new

curb-side conversations and nothing is new

Open their mouths and let them speak.

Bedded in primrose, the white one tells of love

that's ocean deep but sundered by sea,

of inky kisses hiding in manila envelopes,

breathed on notebook paper in purple cursive, weighed down

by nautical miles and automated tax-forms.

A couple yards down

the crooked one stands laughing at the world,

reminding passersby they too are just a little off,

they too are often nothing but an empty mouth.

The grey one knows of loss.

Across the way, the one shaped like a birdhouse

holds not birds but bills, peering out coolly from

their plastic windows while in

the shuttered room

behind a couple blames the other for the state of things.

'It’s all a little purple,’ the violet one laughs,

and sets the neighbors laughing. How absurd it all is.

A host of them hold high their scarlet hands

and itch to spill the tea, while it

is but a waiting game for others.

And night and day they rabble on, the same

old stories, like women talking of Michelangelo and other

things we've heard a million times.