Picture cards

Some other time
the alphabet
would get in the way
of what I really want to say.

It’s making a prisoner of the abstract,
the reflex thought,
the mirror caught in a reflective mood.

Like echoes off the walls
my shadow calls to me,
garbled
A’s and B’s and C’s
he’s just like me
my shadow
knows it’s true.

Maybe the rhyme is
space and time
continuing beyond the
boundary,
the binary,
but
even She
can’t tell.

Life,
is it
the eight track
fast forward
on your back
think of England
multiply by four
close the door
and
when did you leave?

I don’t believe so,
but don’t know
for sure.

© 2019, John Smallshaw.