I wrote a goddamned poem because a goddamned book told me to.
Upstairs, City Lights Bookstore
I shed some time upstairs in,
In the rocking chair, in the rocking chair,
In the rocking chair.
A woman across the narrow alley,
Violently reels in laundry strung across an escape,
A cellist plays for no one, and drunks,
And for all of the lonely vagrants.
Outside there is a constant alarm,
Ringing a constant tone,
I gasp and grieve at someone else’s words,
For all of the unwanted freaks,
For all of the unwanted brutes.
I wouldn’t leave until I drew out,
And delicately held in my maw the prey,
That is, until I could discern what was being hunted,
But not actually captured the thing itself.
At some unclaimed tick, the constant alarm,
Managed to foil my attention and abandon itself,
But I can still hear it, I can still hear it,
I can still hear it.