A raucous squawker
hurtles past you screeching —
careening over ruts and rocks
of a steep ravine
No songbird, this Joe
does not glance at you
nor shift gaze
from his cocky cyberchatter
Pitch forks and Hot fire!
Consider the caustic critique
tossed into social’s hot skillet —
sizzling like a raw egg
on scorching cement
A splatter of grease
singes skin –
punctures your pride.
Pitch forks and Hot fire!
Life is a scuttle
between sharp and sweat
But what if …
you pass that squawk box
and notice he is just trying
to hear himself?
You listen to your self …
and fathom
how a fried egg served
at the twitter table
feeds a family of four
You are present
for one moment
as he dies
a thousand deaths
Leave a Reply