And they stand on corners 'cross
America from screaming,
my angelic bards of night and tattered clothes,
the taxi cab blinks backfire cool green
smell dust and construction zone 2am
I'll walk home if I gotta
desolate souls--
Bus is tired blue sadness
and minds estranged,
We're all silence waiting,
It's late--
We think of home,
not running engine at light
subway stops above ground niteowl early Tuesday,
we think of home--
heavy bag, cheating wives, dvr'd tv's supplication--
burnt offerings, savior prayer, my knees in aisle--
our night or mad gods or fire--
what're we all doing
up so late- alone?
No comments:
Post a Comment