Last Night by Marty Christensen

Marty Christensen was an arrogant pipsqueak who couldn't imagine I understood poetry, until I published this. Then I couldn't get rid of him.


Life was burning its bridges
all night while the giraffes stooped
down to eat the tiny leaves that had escaped
the hustle of the night before.
This jungle ruled by a dilation,
the moon between the trees a captive
audience of owls & snakes.
Bloodshot broken minds that saw the moon
& watched the stars without
much real understanding.
Just tedium.
Just bliss. A drum, a pipe,
the paraphernalia
of the night before.

Marty Christensen



TS