Caricatures Can Never Be Loved
I hear music when I’m trying to
work. You have to understand: no one
cries for the fat man with the broken knees
smeared in banana skin, the librarian
splattered under a piano. Heads don’t turn
from the droning click of keys
to even notice the tragedy of dying
in khakis. I trap my hours in graphite,
pin their wings to the page and draw neat
lines through them when I’ve spent them.
This is how it should be, no? And yet
tell me how. I can’t even spell
the word libretto, and yet at the periphery
of my hearing, voices rise, and here I scribble.
C.L. Bledsoe
Posted over on Right Hand Pointing
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