there, growers in lean times.

pale with grief
I ride the sun in to
the flat black rooftops of the
abandoned and boarded
hold outs, the
solider skeletons of
the immaculate desert- downtown
the last daisy flying
up in solitary wind
my widening eyes
empty burning a
crescent moon in the blue
lung sky I exhale a
pattern of street lights
solemn and begging, bums, food almost
never,
wanters- but mostly cash, a story a
lie- if not one cigarette, two
a quarter,
some how 33 cents seems to be a scam,
too
the unbelievable made true
by urgency, panic, desperation glue
to hold their brass words up against the
shredded sun, telling it to children too
softy though
because it is so quiet now
in my city
that
the mice wail, and gather
under its purple hour
to call her home,
Midnight, Midnight, And she comes like a wife.