I’ve been standing here a long while

Just waiting for..

Wires to wrap around my

Wooden neck

Waiting for

The current to pass through

Those rubber ropes

Shocking my patience.


Whispers woosh through

Those withering wires

Whispers of a man to a woman

Who is

Not his wife

Wonderings about mixed signals


Demands from a damsel so not in distress

I carry the weight of their signals

Their words

I am

Waterlogged with their words unsaid.


I stand tall

Their finish line

After a block long race

Brothers will wind to push their

Hair from their eyes

And their bodies forward

Half sprinting

Half stumbling on their doe-like legs

Long and gangly

Preparing for the race that will extend beyond

My rendition as their finish line.


I am



Bright eyed

Bright minded adolescents

With calloused fingertips

From nights long lost strumming guitars

And beating drums


Pull chromatic flyers

From worn down messenger bags


Smooth them against my oak abdomen

Before chip

Chipping the staples into me

Their hopes

And aspirations

Puncture my skin.


Waiting for a hundred more generations of


Of lingering lovers

Of regular returners.


While these punctures ache

And the electric currents never quiet

I would not trade up my spot on 34th and Hawthorne st.


Without flyers and

The electricity

Without light

Without hopes

I’m just a post.


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