Tuesday 138: Poem
Breaking news
They let me know over the phone,
while I was walking:
There was an issue at the parade.
You always had me
so calm in
a crowd
I’d be this pelt cap
tight
in the mayhem of girls,
breathy moth-like in skirts,
melting. Their voices
important, like smoke
in a stairwell,
and their violence was
so good.
Fumes go real slow
and a red stencil
sticks to my face.
I’ve put the planet to bed.
Let the rivers
draw it
while it sleeps.
I remember when you lived here you had nothing to say.
Predictable as a penthouse,
a rival
for my bones.