thirsty ditch 3

coffee longs for the
curl of a sentence, the
laugh
of man made
ivory, of lost days
coffee longs
for
the
celebration,
for
the
blazed out
buildings after,
for teen
aged minds
frozen in the, long
long prose poem-
smoking
the last of the cigarettes,
the last of the scrapes
of
the
illicit blue
caps of seedy
adolescents
the
destroyer comes at
dawn
and even then the
beautiful people
allow nothing
to come -we want that-
we want
bricks of friends gnarled
by the fiber
of work, by the weave of heroes
by the confidence of every
copy
cat
artist and finally
the fingers twitch to know
every tin cup
now plastic
now paper, now
empty,
cool classic and
ultimately disposable.