Poetical Tuesday: The Wastepipe

Descending into heaven with a cornpipe,
He stands alone, he’s sixth in line to enter.
The lines are tall, the light is wild, the time is ripe.

Glov’d hand on the fur round her throat like a stripe,
And leaning away from the dark dissenter
Who eyes something far off, like a hidden snipe.Brightest_London_is_best_reached_by_Underground,_subway_poster,_1924
They wait and whisper, bundled husband and wife,
As if they fear being caught in the center.
The lines are tall, the light is wild, the time is ripe.

Fedora hat on his knee, a business-type,
Blue suit and black bowtie-every boy’s mentor,
His hair is slick, just like the fashion prescribes.

Into their minds they effortlessly imbibe,
The hype and the tremor to lead their venture
The colorful, plentiful sea of the types.

From easterly clans and the westerly tribes,
To become a singer or car inventor,
They wade from their wastelands to enter the light.

And down from the orange and yellow wastepipe,
They come to make dreams emerge from in venter:
The colorful, plentiful sea of the types.

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