Drop Off Poem by Robert Macdonald

Weaved into a dark-age tapestry
A smooth speaking
China Vase
Shattered artifact,
A bleeding letter dried out
onto a page,
A case of cancer
Could it be too late
to regenerate?
Or is there a fixed range?
A slot for every thought
Accepting loose change

Is there a place for traitors, bums, and cowards
Who climbed lifetimes over the rising towers?
Dreary days!
Went nauseous from an idle downward glance
Had only scattered dreams to say
Politely turned back
Stumbled shut-eye
Into a shapeless lump of clay.

Yet reminiscent of a woman’s whisper
Free awake
For you
The Boston lights
Will always shine
A fading red,
A pale blue.