Paul E Sexton, Poetry


Parking Lot Existentialism

Under waffle iron sky
cumulous and cotton like,
draped in slips of light
the baby's eyes were wild and
a murder of black birds,
possibly crows,
paraded about
on large square cement stage,
"pad sites available".

It's all about the baby
and his face
and the new truck
and the new house
and being able to see the stars
so much more clearly
outside of the city,

Funny, but when staring down 36
the sky in blue-gray
in what passes for a cold day
in Texas,
it blinks for a moment,

I realize
that It's all my imagination.
the jobs
the marriage
the memories of childhood
the ideas about life
the poets and the poems
the truck and the house
even the baby himself.

Nothing is real
and the crows are laughing
at my folly
even as I laugh
at theirs.