PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Misplaced

I am

like a set of keys

in a dishwasher rack

to a car that’s been sold.

I serve no purpose,

like the left-hand turn signal

of a tank.

We all know

those things

are born with road rage

the way normal people

are born with two thumbs.



Erased

I am

like stains on a rug

before a plausible miracle product

sold by the excited man

inside the tube.

Maybe I was

never there,

or maybe I was meant

to fade

at the slightest hint of trouble,

like an invisible man

fleeing from infra-red cameras.

You should know

I’ll be back

before the last star falls

to bare witness

to both sides.



Encased

I am

in a blanket of white,

perfectly black on the inside,

that keeps me hidden

beneath onion peel layers.

A few can see right through

to know I’m there,

while the rest

listen to silver tongues

that replace me

with my evil twin.

We all know

he’s up to no good,

but who wants to admit

that they saw it happening

and just went along?



Traced

I am,

copied and circulated

in offices and boardrooms

and salesmen’s pitches,

the greatest enemy

of a corporate world,

but only in the right hands.

I am the dangerous secret

they hope to conceal

in a game of telephone,

even though

they should know,

with enough participants

along the chain,

someone will hear it right.