Wednesday, December 04, 2013


Out here in the urban wilds
the wind goes "whoosh" through buildings,
while the sun plops down over everything
at severe angles. The vacant lot of brown grass sways
a syrupy dance, undulating like hips
during a fuck. Heavy with rust, all the cars
creak over the dusty highway.
We drink snow coffee and pace
around our aluminum shed,
glancing at our reflections in
oily puddles to determine the effects
of the environment on our rush
through time. Gravity plays no
small part when we drop things.
In fact, it is because of gravity
that a baby can rest on a knee
without floating away.
By nightfall, the city is dark,
people stumble over curbs and cuss,
brushing themselves off, and breathing
through rags dipped in vetiver
to disguise the smell of the dark.
In the morning, we'll eat the things
that are least covered with gray dust,
stopping between bites to blow dead skin
from the back of our hands.


Blogger Toast said...

Nice one. Seriously, I'm sitting here in my cubicle and I want to do a slow clap. :-)

9:56 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Such a great poem...

11:01 AM  

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