The night is when we take over the roads
With all of our trinkets and wares to sell.
We put up our tents and unpack our loads
Of colorful textiles with their bright spells.
Would you please unhinge your fat money clip
To give away your valuable bills?
In exchange in your backpack you can slip
The stuff you have earned with your shopping thrills.
We can both move on with each satisfied
About what we have done in this market.
Thoughts of Communism is all that died
As the world fights for what it wants to get.
We will shuffle off in the rising dawn
Wondering where the night market has gone.
Tag: Poetry
Death of a Teacher
Death of a Teacher
He was buried under a mound of dirt
Commemorated by simple granite.
Attired in his most expensive shirt,
They stuffed him in a box of laminate.
A preacher stood at the edge of the grave
To sing out comforting words to no one.
Even the day’s weather would not behave
As the moist grass baked in the morning sun.
Beyond the gates of the cemetery
His students bustled on with their careers.
They did not read his obituary,
Having let go of all their high school fears.
The weight of his teaching prosperity
Comes from knowing he has no legacy.
John Collings 