Dirty Windows Poem by Chris G. Vaillancourt

Dirty windows glancing with
impudence upon the street. Inside I
suspect there are dirty people living
their mangled lives. Checking each
other for fleas and lice; scratching their
groins with casual indifference. The men
sit around in their underwear collecting
vulgar metaphors to throw upon their
kids. The women hide in their
basements eating chocolate cakes
by the ton. The children are angry
young voices that filter their angst
upon the school systems.

This is the real world.

Fickle signs that indicate the passage
of the world. 'Buy me'! The neon
lights will flicker in endless patterns of
happy delight. Computer screens blinking
on and off reminding dirty people of the filth
that is readily available. People sitting,
staring like glass eyed morons in front of
their television sets. Creaking bones that
are allied with cobweb minds that utter
mis-spelled definitions of the news of the
earth.

This is the real loss.

Growing dissension that lies like guilt
buried in a box by the front door. Open
the tomb and enter in. The grasping
hands reach up and pull you to your death.
I believe that golden showers only arrive
after the dirty windows have been cleaned.

But they never are clean. Each morning a new
stench of defeat is grimed upon the freshly
painted glass. We are certain only of nothing,
and everything we believe has been modified
by the screens that continue to blink on and off.

Craziness is the only excuse. Therefore the people
must shut their doors and draw their drapes
to avoid the reality of their sins. I suspect
that after dark they will murder one another
in their sleep.