Jack

Shouting into the void,
pitched coins tumble down
and down to ricochet clink
along tar slick stone walls
and their gristled black lichen,
glimmering at water's slip.
Plink.
The pleasantry of candle light on
Friday.  A quarter that would
otherwise feed
a cigarette machine & jukebox
tumbles, a lighthouse lamp
too far and too night to warm.
Plink.
Listen and hear the algae
creep into the well stone's seams.
Eyes close and open
to the land of Neversleep.
Beyond the ripples
along the well's wet face.
Plink.
Come play with me.
Come play with me.
The Shelty, fourteen years deceased
tugs at fingertips and snuffles a palm.
He will understand in time.
Everything sleeps.
Plink.