Burnt coffee on Tuesdays, served as if
Gods were born cold and wet, blessed in a cheap
plastic bassinet, adorned in toss-away overalls,
fed on asphalt and Sunday morning matinees,
rocked to sleep to sweet Egyptian rings, grew up
beside charcoal smeared kitchen walls, learned to fuck
hot and tight in backseats, heads poking up
like marmots when headlights eat the windshield’s fog,
slammed into a brick wall of paychecks, morning dailies,
bitter chicory on the way to bed beneath a concrete blanket…
The time of tatters and hunchbacked silhouettes, of groping
for coins in the two o’clock street light, has been upon us
for a while, so too the times of the Wednesday mornings
that you aren’t here, and Thursday afternoons you promised so long ago.
