The Art of Noise

I guess it could be looked at as art.

Cluttered messages hung with tape and tacks.

Some are thoughtful with tear away tabs,

written in haste—a last ditch effort—

desperation on display heeding unforeseen

circumstance, feed me feed me feed me,

ghosted invisible bold letters across the top

and down the sides and even on the back.

Obnoxious ekphrastic, a secret agenda,

and the secret is to read between the lines.

Personal public display with intent to express

anything but the truth—gently loved,

low mileage, belonged to an old lady only

used on Sundays, a cure for all tonics,

and the ultimate Jesus Loves You please give.

There’s only so much real estate between

the light standards at major intersections

and the signs are clear. Empty coffee cups

in hand pacing up and down the mediums

when the lights are red. Sad puppy dog

eyes gesturing drivers in their warm cars.

Some with crude signs around their necks

—I’m Hungry—and I want to say something,

but then bite my tongue because every week

there’s a few more, and one day it might be me,

with my luck it will be later than sooner

when the intersections will be more populated

and the cars fewer.