achromatic

fatuous laughter at my back
as carefree and orange as the sky
a gristbite growl within my chest
black and tensive as the entropic why

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2020

don’t call us, we’ll call you

he goes away with a drooped head
followed by the eyes of alley cats
without applause, without flowers
his key monologue remains unsaid

he goes away in a fading ray
stepping over scattered set and props
and wind frays his shadow on the wall
like the theater bill of a failed play

by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2018