Walls And Curtains In The Street Poem by Felix Bongjoh

Walls And Curtains In The Street



(for masked dudes)

Let the horizon hang behind a silver slash
of lightening rising in broken steel rods,
drawing down heavy curtains of shivers between
folks floating in a storm of ice, a freezing blizzard.
A deluge rumbles between thousands of widening cliffs.

In bubbling steams brewing suspicion,
brow to brow, one's nostrils smoke and volcano pipes.
Hands no longer the guinea fowls
that congregated in wallowing blankets of warmth,
but sparrows ferreting out roof holes.

Sidewalks are growing forests of dudes,
masked tortoise shrubs of familiar faces
ducking each other amid tall trees, wearing masks,
slabs and stones on cheeks the smoothest
forced smiles beamed with shaded shadows.

In the street walls and fences separate
hands from each other, a tree trunk another dude
hiding behind a broken ray of sun,
a flip of the fingers one thousand hundreds of feet
off a pad that stroke with a tossed-off greeting.

See, just see, many miles off the zephyr hoisted
by glued chests and cheeks in a breeze and gale, flying
ribbons of fixed stares once inches close.
A gaze scissored off, a peek axed by cloud and shroud,
curtain glass falling between dudes burning laughs.

In their cubicles of cleaved gorges pushing them
off from each other like trees in a California storm fire,
they sing with barking dogs, as they walk on runway streets
in narrow hallway at a hospital, creeping smiles
avatars letting a day cruise like a breeze on the sidewalk,
staircases rising with trees grown to dodge stare and breath.

Wednesday, March 18, 2020
Topic(s) of this poem: lifestyle
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Felix Bongjoh

Felix Bongjoh

Shisong-Bui, Cameroon
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