Thought(less)+ness

The sound of paper balls

Tumbling about outside my van window

They're like eyeballs

Without pupils

They're stillborn thoughts

Premature and not yet ready to live

Dead things in the breeze

Whirling against the alley wall

My pen drips ink and it is

Milk dripping from a wet nurse

To nourish the asphalt

And all its urine stains, condom wrappers,

Gum spots dried and blackened

A bit of wasted life

And I am searching now

Maybe for something I can relate to

Something I can wrap my head around

Something real

"is this real?"

I jot it down

Stare at it for a moment

Then I crumple it up

And I toss it out the window