i meant to make you comfort. i meant
to make you last. --m. koosman
Hopping along the trash-lined street with a moving van idle in the middle of the road, the man with dog-yellow eyes switches voices from the high pitched plead for (drug/change/assistance) to the baritone, post-question, response of, "yeah, ok, ok, i'm doing ok today." He blows his nose in his hand and turns his head toward the ground.
The pigeons dress up for the sky and each other. Lately a lot of irridescent plumage and display of girth by seemingly desperate males toward highly uninterested females which leads to erratic flight patterns. The sky suddenly empty of wings and a line of birds on the cornice, jockeying. And for this, people hate them.
As for me, I continue to toss and turn, sleepless, waiting for daybreak. And this month, the Department of Agricultyre would like to pay you not to grow potatoes, darling (emphasis misplaced on you and not not). Time configured like a wheel, the city roaring its own disappearance. Within this, another turning.