The Idle talker

Winter appals

Him or… her

Through the crispy air

The idle talker walks

With bound feet

And limping hands.

A baggage of plastic thoughts

Between the legs.

The idle talker grins and grins

When the sky is dim and

The sun does not limn.

At the local pub

The idle talker

Speaks, sips

Through the smoke

And reams

Of purple chairs,

Through a dried mouth

Of an evergreen

Like tin ware.

Handcuffed to

The buttocks of slim seats,

The voice talks, talks, and talks.

And to the winds

At whim with no tunes

It even sings, sings and sings.

The idle talker has not dreams

Nor plans- its thoughts are done

In the murky élan

Of natters.

The idle talker

Has no wishes of women,

Nor of men,

No real joys from either of them.

The idle talker smiles

At the sun and the candlelight

Of a TV screen,

Collects plastic bags and

Bottle and eggs

With an artificial,

Invisible Net.

The idle talker’s smiles

Itch the skin

Of the Other, who

Sullen and thrift buys

It’s words,

Words, words, words, words…

Oh my lord!

They travel light,

Balloons rest only

In the heights,

Amid hairy kites halted in mid air.

The idle talker does not drink

Tea, does not lick milk.

The idle talker

Does not even rhyme nor mime.

A lover’s hiss,

A deathbed wish,

A football funs’ scream,

A heartbroken fist and

The razzamatazz of

Weary housewives

A hasty stroke,

An indelible papery wrinkle

A sigh, a coo or a boo…

A sneeze, a sneeze, a sneeze…

Winter appals

him or… her.