PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I've got a problem with these strange
men who keep walking around my house
walking in circles, silent, polite
but stern and staring with stares
that tell stories. Stories I don't like
to hear.

These guys, they're supposed to be here
to tell me something, but none of them
seem to want to get down to the details.
they're all more than willing to spit
shine my shoes and fart into the wind next
to me but what is the point of it all?
One of them says he wants to show
me something, to forget the stories,
the details, that it's all lies.
I told him I wasn't interested.

Feels like there's more and more of them
every day, hanging out on my porch and
passing cigarettes on my backyard patio.
I've learned to ignore them, or at least
try to, but as soon as I get used to them,
they start opening their briefcases, rich
mahogany briefcases full of fabulous,
irresistable product, some seriously good
shit. But then they start telling those
damn stories, and I'm wondering how long
they've been here.

Days, weeks, fortnights, months, years, decades?
Seems longer, or shorter, I can't even tell. I
haven't seen my lawn in a while, and the grass
won't grow because these guys are always standing
on it, so I guess it doesn't matter. Maybe someday
they'll leave, but until then, I'm just going
to try to tolerate them. What's the worst that could
happen?