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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=577685" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Paychecks Of Lost Men</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=577685" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Dying figments unsuited for these hours<br>Sit underneath the dabs of wasps, <br>Or at the corners of her cheek where she lives: <br>In the pornography of rusting cars, <br>Or at the sad confines of the canal: <br>Floating along in her trailer park underneath<br>The washout heavens of those<br>Billboards trying to sell their god to the highway-<br>When she smiles, a long ways off, <br>She can see her children even if they cannot<br>Recognize her- and it is her art form to do this, <br>And to sit beautifully alone, <br>Pleasuring herself as if she believed in ghosts: <br>Like my own childhood where I remember sitting<br>With my mother and reading books <br>Underneath skyscrapers and landmines of sunshine: <br>Or leaning over to see our doppelgangers in the<br>Canal, <br>The tadpoles swimming with the paychecks of <br>Lost men: reticent to transform, <br>They remain in my childhood long after I have gone.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Bret+R.+Crabrooke">Bret R. Crabrooke</a></strong></div>

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