I need things I wouldn’t
in a perfect world need:
– a change of buses to get to work
– a post-it note to plan ahead
– a pack of smokes to see me through
– a someone else to forgive me this and that.

Streets come in bundles of three
smeared with people paste.
Heaven and Hell are run like two offices
across the road from each other:
anger observing the competition,
sales pitches shot at souls of passersby.

My love hides in plain sight
in funereal corners of the earth:
I want to run a bar that only lets you in
when you lose someone you cared for
when you begin to wear black
when and when and not if.

I’m about as open as a fist
and sick to death of sage advice.
Lay down the eyes that keep me awake
and wishy-washy-wish for feet
who’d know how to rest at night.

Mornings before dawn are grey and are cool and are blue
and are on their own since no one else yet realized.