Your shadow follows me
like an oil smear on asphalt.
I carry your shrunken head in a paper bag.
No one mistakes it for wine.
The factory label reads:
“Do not cut threads between lips.”
You drooled forty-five books
before Daddy Death decked you.
Still, precautions must be taken
because you took democracy too far.
Now anyone with a spray can thinks he’s a poet –
just look at our streets.
About the AuthorC.E. Chaffin is a SoCal native and attended UCLA. His recent poetry collection, "Unexpected Light," [http://www.cechaffin.com/light.html] is available through booksellers everywhere. He's been widely published on the web and in print.
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