Vacantly, I Holler, As The Tip Of The Tongue Retracts Poem by Chris G. Vaillancourt

Vacantly, I holler, as the tip
of the tongue retracts, wound
as open as the changing season.
A chasm wide between the
shifting values, somebody
calls me on the phone. I answer
it but the line is quiet. Somebody
does not want to talk to me,
so all my arrangements have
been changed. Ideally, the
sheets on the bed are changed
every day, and the window
blinds are raised, just a bit,
to indicate the false
premise of open hearts.
It does not help that the
beggars on the street smile
in dismissive attitudes as I
crawl along in disguise.
Days are routines locked like
keys into only one tumbler.

Nothing changes.
Nothing changes
Nothing changes.

I toss aside opinions faster
with each blinded hand,
one finger embracing another
and all together forming
plans. My own personal
eye travels to the next
pebbled judgement, and
I finally understand the
blinking of the lights;

Off and on.
Off and on.
Off and on.