Light Bulbs are Not Answers, They Are Questions [Day 32]

                There is a curdle of cheese
curdling into smaller beady-eyed mice
beneath the benevolent hallow girth
of my practicing God, a minimalist fridge.

                It is raining outside,
the soft pitter-patter running
across the roof of my apartment
in an effort to flee search lights,

police lie sprawled on every corner
worshiping fire hydrants and ramps,
the alternate stairways to heaven.

                There is a slice of pink
paper on the windshield of a car
squatting at the other end of the street.

                Pink paper is easy to see.
                Pink paper is hard to read.

Have you found a pile of newspaper
clippings in the garage by the sewer?

A pentagram in blood, or puddled
holes in the ceiling catching red lights
worshiping my not-leaky fridge.

                There is a slice of pink
paper on the front-door of my apartment
spotted on this side of the street.

                It is raining outside,
                but I do not believe it is.

_{Written for free-verse poetry maven Hive account@d-pend's revolutionary poetry initiative The 100 Day Poetry Challenge [Advanced Group] undertaken for Steemit School where Hive account@d-pend will be hosting a daily poetry show at 5 PM GMT.}

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