Sinkhole What is in your heart? He screamed at nobody in particular Passersby drifted to the far sidewalk Tugging their children close Giving a wider berth to the growing void That night the men folk would return with stones and tar Heaving and pouring Indifferent to the screaming futility Toil is its own reward Stenciled on their clean white coveralls An anesthetic called rage Stokes an empty pocket Unsheathing the first righteous fist Toil becomes sweat and blood Besmirching the immaculate uniforms Spilling on the cobblestones Pennies and half-rubbed lamps Grant no wishes And feed no starlings They whisper, “Mortimer” These innocent conspirators Perched neatly on insulated lines Away from the gaping maws Chirping in untidy nests Gnawing on the empty calories Of tattered newspapers All that voltage beneath wiry feet But no amplitude Mimicry’s intoxicating wattage Rouses distracting sparks Causing intermittent blindness But no deafness To the chirping cacophony Dangerous sidewalks Flank streets paved in gold Clogged conduits Under the criss-crossed power lines Sagging with starlings The gold tastes like copper To the blind old bird What is in your heart? He screamed at nobody in particular What is in your heart? Echoes in the sinkhole —- By Doodleslice 2021-08-09 #poem #poetry #poetrycommunity #poetrylovers

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