speaking somberly – no, choking
on the sooten neverend
soft yellow raincoat soaked through
and stuck threadbare to an oversized backpack
running home to pick up a halfread book
and
my lungs were young then
cycling the warm fireplace air and grinning
now i prick my thumb
with a shaking pin and simply
watch tar erupt
, beneath joan stevens hall
beside the stinking skip
i write a little song
it goes like this:
more and more do i relate
my every wake
to weathered men
on corners perched and billowing
the amber flame
again, again