A Found Poem of Sorts
One lone trumpet,
Miles, Aranjuez…
lingering curl of sound and emotion
twirls satisfyingly lachrymose.
Interrupted by the jangle of the phone!
May I please speak to Angela Hatter?
A voice on the line asks…
You have the wrong number!
She doesn’t live here!
She has never lived here!
Please quit calling here!
Slam bam, fuck you
Can’t feel a song, sadness,
Can’t even cry a moment without intrusion
of someone esle’s mess.
Jacquelyn's Space 