Poets Out of Service

Like a full service gas station

or postal service workers,

displaced, racing to Staples retail

for employment against the rule of labor,

poets are out of business nowadays.

Who carries change in their pockets?

Who tosses loose coins in their car ashtray anymore?

iPhones, Smartphones, life is cam ready to shoot, destroy.

No one reads poets anymore. 

No one thumbs through yellow pages anymore.

Who has sex in the back seat of their car anymore, just naked shots online?

Streetwalkers, cosmetic, bleach blonde whores,

plastic altered faces in neon night,

don’t bother to pick pennies or quarters off the street anymore.

The days of nickel bag of candy, pennies lying on the counter top –

for Tar Babies, String licorice, Wax Lips,

Pixie Sticks, Good & Plenty, no more.

Everyone is a stop end player in time.

Monster technology destroys culture fragments, efforts in mindlessness.

Old age is a passive slut, conversations distilled, serrated

measurements by number of slim toothpicks,

matchbooks of many colors vanished.

Time is a broken stopwatch gone by.

Life is a defunct full service gas station.

Poets are out of business.