There's a pocket of unspoken wants
at the corner of Loud and Quick.
Traffic accidents accrue
in a rich metallic grin.
No passerby dares to thrust a hand
inside it without its helpmeet coat.
No one offers to launder.
Is this humor, some nutty bulb,
or is it a completed transaction?
The pocket is silent, foolish pouch,
a discard ballooning in the wind.
Oooh, I typed this on the Royal this morning. The delicious tick, tack of the keys!