Beep, beep, beep, beep,
Crisis hotlines don’t ring anymore; only busy signals
Telegraphist, please: Three dits, three dahs, and three dits, to run them together without letter spacing. S.O.S!
Maybe smoke signal?
And somewhere far in the cavity of my skull, the nagging question; Will I walk the rope tomorrow or leave this place for good?
Drunken late night talks. Sloppy, stumblingly phrases effortless expose skeletons lurking the closets of most lovers. But not you, Beirut.
Buried below the glitter – rise apartments, civilizations in a layer cake of sediment. Sandwiched between earthquake ridden centuries.
This sack of bones cannot be uncovered by world-renowned excavators.