Peanut Shells

A bowl of peanut shells
with my fingers in it, the
dead tattle on the living.
They are desperate for
attention, the blue
suds of their time on earth still sing
somewhere, along with the
choir of yet another coming Christmas,
It washes our hair and runs in our gutters.
Peanut shells, you stay up late
with me.
You gossip, influence my thoughts,
my love, you are
locusts who have slipped out of their
lives, you are the wings of
prehistoric flies, you are
headstones.
Your wheat
colored eyes twiddling with
naughty dreams, I turn off the light
and listen to traffic.