Feste's Lute

Scribbles & Sketches of the Unspeakable

Post Hole Digger

Bumbling through each station,
eyes crossed,
their sockets drip, perusing
army cloth to
fast conceal
the joint exposed.

Sergeants ardent scream,
shrubs strung to
shoulders, creep—
Stop.
Foreheads imploded,
My tragic similes…

Checked

Make a list.
Let’s cross it off
(offal tossed
in nervous thought).
• Her house coat ironed
• duvet drawn taut
• carpet strained
of threads we sought
in ernest yesterday…