Tossed away, past a capital keepsake,
no one’s building a monument
to the masses of tired men trying to get up
off the shore. In the middle of a wasted day,
sipping soda, but no argument for the steps
that get lost in the rhythm.
Wound up tight in the ruts and grooves.
Kill the light, smoke another one,
“It’s not right,” “Keep your eyes on the streetcar.”
That won’t do, no it’s too direct.
Write it down, maybe circumspect.
Pull it back, keep it natural, do not address what is missing.
Through the park, in the circle and in the dark
some kind of hired hand’s documents
spilling open like catfish in the river.
Written out--who can read it,
but spell it out. Thoughts that intersect--
flush it out, push it outside the boundaries.
The left side; the right side.
Take it all, popped and firecracked.
Burn it all, just to redirect.
Bust it loose, drop the bomb and then,
cut it out, just a minor threat.
White it out, parking lots and then,
sell me out. Not a native but sell me out.