streets groan
as if waking from a hangover
repetitive, tubercular
slick with its own tears and remorse.
blind staggers come after
hours of dazed enchantment
as one arm bandits entice you
to play chicken with your scratch.
the church sign
tells you all 'christ died for your sins'
above an alley where they thank him
before that next blow.
and the fog finally lifts
like dead skin from the edges of a wound
iowa avenue begins another day
living while intoxicated by fantasy.
No comments:
Post a Comment