Somebody gotta wring their pans
against large rimmed plastic glasses.
Make pay for heat in poverty stands.
Get the bunnies out of the jars of molasses.
Ride through the winter snow
and stop at lonely city trees to
ponder new worlds, ever aglow.
I am in the cardboard box
under the little bridge. My nipples
have long frosted off and are probably in
someone’s fridge. Everything I whisper
is a raspy fart on other’s tongue.
The fairies bring me wintergreen
but I cannot eat. It all comes up as bible pages
and anti beef propaganda cheat sheets.
Where is my dead Shakespeare and the wild
strawberry patch. What happened to the thing
that used to pass the sandwiches on down
and ding the bells of Saint Mary’s on 2nd street.
If you see me and you think boy, there goes
a fallen treat, you are right.
I lost everything to fried meats on a name
something night. I miss the yellow potato soup
from the hospital. She tasted like home
but was warm with sweet onions and toasted breadcrumbs
The monkeys fling by, the gypsies shout their way,
the troubadour sings of lost battles, and I
follow a holy rats tail of cheese and hunger
I may be the lowly cane of poverty
but at least, thank the red and green gods,
for this coal coat and golden rifle.
If I can’t get a crow, I’ll get a wallet.