M o r + o g r o p h y
Examines their ivory-whites.....for a jaundiced shade of yellow,
Sometimes challenging sleep by black joe and sugar cane cubes.
Occasionally dabbing the tip of his index finger 'pon rigid thighs,
They be the first signs of pre-mature Riga....human ossification.
One look thru' his eyes, dead eyes, his tri-pod drags by his side,
Immune to the caffeine in his veins, from the natural ice-water,
Waiting for the celcius to refrigerate the room with sub-zeroe's,
And, procedes to position his queer craft in theatric, erotic style.
Snap, Snap, a smirk of cynical rush, stretching across his visage.
What do you do for a living, asks a child....walking past the room.
I take picture's of the sleeping....boy; what's it look like i'm doing?
Cold as ice, says the boy......COLD AS DEATH.....chides the man!
Waiting by the phone for another call with camera, death in hand;
And, after all he's not the one who lays the quarters on their Eyes.
poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
Added by Poetry Lover
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