"The Graveyard Sure is a Lonesome Place"

Shifts come out
whistling steam whistles
whistle in the dark
cold
sausage stink
and like
Ol' Choctaw chiefs on the run
they hit the
pavement
in deerskins and
war paint.

So
the ghosts
patch the holes
in their soles
so they got
boots on a glass-half-empty
full moon, Magha Puja to be exact.

Pullin old
light-moon food engines
in the winter's glass-half-empty
Heart ghosts.

Well take the furniture please
because I always thought
under street orange
you might
hate me so
dearly
and I had just hoped
you'd say just about anything.

Now here I'm in trouble y'all.

I've got dice and a bible, a 9mm
and crying swarming
eyes like
the river surrounding
a heart that
just wants you to say
anything.