Poems from Roger Singer


Her eyes waited like ink spots
boiling black;
a temptress of vision at a table,
at a café
on a street by a park.

The furnace of the city
released a steam of energies
from lines backed up on bridges
and wide shaded avenues.

Footsteps struck the
anvils of sidewalks.
Forests of legs, sticks with joints,
hurried like animals fleeing fire.

The universe spins outside her globe,
far from her table
and the city breathing.

The aroma of coffee warms her hands.




A city rain fell in long lines,
washing dust into gutters.

Twilight, the mistrals of dark,
waved hands of breezes
over streets with quiet sounds.

Engines of feet plodded into puddles,
splashing wetness with disregard.

Night dreams creep from open windows.
The sound of doors
mark the clock of darkness.

Bedroom lights signal days resign.
Ceiling fans cut into fat air
and lazy dust.

The ashes of spoken words
drift to floors where
half truths and lies
live in shadows.

Troubled thoughts smooth out
over sleep,
and then, we are pulled into day.

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