an other

Whistling down the alleyway
on a Tuesday afternoon
while the rain is pouring down
–loose notes without a tune.

He wears a shadow ‘cross his eyes
, his jacket’s made of sleep,
and in each pocket jostling
are heaps of tasty treats.

Not candies; no, no lollypops,
no sugar-laden fare,
but songs and words and concepts sealed
new, untouched by air.

He hands them out to cats and things
that lurk along the walls.
To roaches skittering he speaks
and they safeguard his songs.

How strange it is to think upon
the words we’ll never hear.
Those novel thoughts that can’t belong
to any human ear.

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