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Poetry by Paul Hostovsky 

Paul is the author of Dusk Outside the Braille Press.  He lives in Massachusetts.  Visit his site.





© 2007 Paul Hostovsky






Someone has left an orange pylon
here. I look around but there's no
work going on here, only this sign
of work. Maybe it's a sign that work
needs to go on here. I look for the bump
or the hole. But there's nothing. Maybe
it fell off a truck on its way to somewhere
else where there's work. No work here though,
just this orange pylon and the problem
of what it all means. I sit down across from it,
my chin in my hands. It's looking very
orange. Very official-looking. You could
put it in your life and people would know
to avoid you, to stay away or go
around. You could really get some work done,
dig real deep, take as long as you like,
scratch your crotch and go for a liquid lunch
and not come back for days, years, your work
still waiting for you here, all undisturbed,
this finger holding your place, pointing
to itself pointing to your work pointing up.















All work is copyrighted property of Paul Hostovsky.




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