Waiting on the laundry pitch-taker out of context

Where the telephones face the mud rattling
starry in the pleasant in-skies cornered
land of ghosts forming around cement
tattling on soft ground, rehearsed arbitration

Catered dimensions do not frighten the mildew
or the eclampsia candlelight soft trays at dawn
never to be witnessed like crumbled sand-toilets
calling from desolate shouts at the TV mallets

Here we have life going on in saintly atrophy
tuxedo’d metaphors condemning the palace
never take out a loan to pay the soft wages
never take an express train to impress wreaths
Just newly censored and practical fomenting suits
doctoring the catapult-first-class restraining pipes