If people lived in sewer pipes,
We’d save a lot on rent.
We wouldn’t have to worry where
Our last dollar was spent.
We’d paint the walls and fill the space
With potpourri and heat,
Until in time pipes would be home,
And life would be complete.
If whispered words were sonic booms,
The silent would be heard.
The works of writers would resound,
And echo every word.
If tainted tongues could tell their truth,
The Censored could speak free
And murmers of the multitudes
Would ring eternally.
If hands grew roots, the fingertips
Would stretch up toward the sun.
The veins would penetrate the ground
And through the earth they’d run.
Each hand would clench another and
‘Till death they’d stretch and grow
As tall as the ancient redwoods,
Like seeds old farmers sow.
If weathered boards were new harpstrings,
The winds would play sweet song.
They’d strum the deepest melodies,
And not a key’d be wrong.
With every gust of air the strings
Would play fine harmony
And form their soft and sultry sounds:
A splinter symphony.
