Sour air streamed from the drier vents in the alley in back of the laundromat.
I pressed close against the spit stained wall by the bust stop on Division.
By the depths in the hypogloamy sea, by the shores of Armageddon,
I have strolled on the sands of slime and now my feet are splay.
“Narty fillawig,” a toothless man repeated for the second time.
I find that for the lack of terminology I’ve had some difficulty
Getting the malt through the straw, and now I am all
Sucked back through that past I dreaded mostly
“Narty, guy bressed,” the old man insisted, putting
a dirty finger in his mouth and smacking his lips.
when winter rains hit Nashville, and fat drops
Trickle down the back of your mind.
Pictures of Polly leaning against the tree,
And one she took of me
Leaning.
February 28, 2009
Poetry