A theory of communication
by Bob Hicok
He came upon a can tied to a string,
rusted, and listened to this probably
tomato soup, propably kite, what the string
was meant to hold, the sky, in its tug,
saying blue is the color of the wind.
and there it was, his own voice
from thirty years ago, telling the girl
he liked the smell of her hair,
which he could never say to her face,
when she dropped the can and moved away,
to Toledo, it was said on the playground,
where punches lived and the first bell
was ignored, thinking he should answer
himself, now that he’d learned, but what
had he learned, he couldn’t say, so he said that
About the poem: I was thinking of a poem I once posted on another blog about a child who goes on and on forever, because I posted that once at the end of summer, and today's got an end-of-summer feel to it. But while I was looking for that one, I found this one, and decided that this, too, has sort of an end-of-summer feel to it, too, so I went with it. It'd be better if it rhymed, though.
About the Hot Actress: I was going to post Olivia Newton-John, but then some sites said she's had plastic surgery, so I asked Sweetie who I should put on here, and she was stumped until I said "How about Diane Lane?" and Sweetie said "Okay." This isn't brain surgery, you know.