Hope Is Lost

My hope is lost.

I guess I was focused on the polka dots.

As a poet I notice folks are clocks.

A photo imposed, quotes are dropped like a yoyo when the rope is cut.

I'm on the top slope but the scope is blocked.

I cut the throat of the pope, the smoke is popped.

I wrote a note soaked in soda pop.

I'm always worried about the social cost when I open the postal box.