Penny’s purgatory
Penny wakes up at 7 a.m.
She puts on her best clothes
they are all made of tin
The dust and the knots in her pockets
all frown
They live in the dusk
in their little Poundtown
Penny picks up flowers of red
She cleans the white vases
collects pieces of thread
The fragile frames and dimes on the ground
reminisce the silence
of the lost and the found
The clocks on the wall show different times
and silvery forks
stand in cluttered lines
Penny sits down and wonders a while
about the living and dead
Are they living or dead?
Penny goes on through her common day
There aren’t any sideways
or any dismay
The only thing she hears
is the stone-covered street
and the violin that echoes from the ash-grey concrete
The clocks on the wall show different times
and silvery forks
stand in cluttered lines
Penny sits down and wonders a while
about the living and dead
Are they living or dead?
