a garage in childhood.
That stinging tang
of concrete and
kerosene, of rust
and carburetor cleaner.
I saw nostalgia
flare on the faces of
16-year olds
in flashy, expensive clothing.
Their wallets fat with
free money and eyes
bursting with lust.
The rain came down
as fireworks went up
and puddles of
dirty cigarette butt
water sullied women's
shiny shoes.
There I felt cold nasty
wetness in my toes, even
though I had
my boots 0n.
The January
sky toward the east
looked dry and blue
that day.
I remarked on the bare
branches over a church
and thought of them
like roots
in an atmosphere's soil.
I ate the coffee grounds
and even some
artichoke spines, but
I never did feel anything
in my heart, or gut.
But sometimes when
one meets a stranger
and she's
much too pretty
to be talking to
and it no longer matters
whether she's humoring,
pandering,
or genuinely
incredibly
talking.
It's not
like I have just one
thing to tell, but
I feel inclined
to talk about a lot.
And sing like a redbird
or just screech loudly
starling-cloud stories
and crap on
everyone's expensive
cars all the while.
The statues, too.
All the old rich
powdered white men
who rode horses over
the poor and the
indigenous for generations.
I'll be a pigeon in Jackson Square
spraying guano on
Ol' Hickory's coif of
brazen hair.
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