nada

wrote a pome at the pond
on a slip of paper. tried to take
it home. last nite i saw a star
move largely in the city sky.
cradles and graves past the point
of our return. i'm speaking in clice
cuz reading has filled me up
lately, i don't need to spill.

i make decisions based on a card and intuition.
fight cats in the baseboards of my head. how does
she do it? the concatenated slyables. the entrenched
dallying in pink slippers by the side
of the river? i can't think like that. she
assures me i wouldn't want to in every
delight. a sly smile towards homeless love
and the tramp, volleying words for food.

john lives on the side of the road, waves
his placard "i won the penn state lottery
and they won't pay" she wonders why he doesn't
get a job. red bow tie and pin up hair.
already she's sick of the way ambition wrests
itself out of her. she was close enough
to the street to feel it. how artless squalor
is more romantic from the window. a lost life
someone else's to live, she'll make her home,
not carry it, someone'll know
who she was and if not, well, hey,
we all gonna die anyway. let's get this show underway.