Walls

As I stand in contrast
questioning authority, to which it stands

Is this wall of concrete asking itself
why I stick around, never leave?
Seeming to grieve this stoic stance
held so long, by a pillar built society.
Do the walls rejoice, in my familiar visage
whenever I caress that sharp roughness
with this softer flesh
polishing the stone.

Or, is it just hope
that makes me imagine the wall alive
with sight, even sturdy voice?

Then, I wonder
is it this stone
that exiles me in
or the world out...

****

Things That Hang

A sound in the air
until caught by an ear
wanted people
on the post office wall
offering money to call
A kite by the wind
with a string
on the other end
that question
of doubt
you know
what I'm talkin' about
A hope
and a prayer
pants, on a leg
the shirt
off his back
A corpse
without any slack...