Poems ✍️

HERE is a face that says half-past seven the same way whether a murder or a
wedding goes on, whether a funeral or a picnic crowd passes.
A tall one I know at the end of a hallway broods in shadows and is watching
booze eat out the insides of the man of the house; it has seen five hopes go in
five years: one woman, one child, and three dreams.
A little one carried in a leather box by an actress rides with her to hotels and is
under her pillow in a sleeping-car between one-night stands.
One hoists a phiz over a railroad station; it points numbers to people a quartermile away who believe it when other clocks fail.
And of course ... there are wrist watches over the pulses of airmen eager to go to
France...