04/30/20 Workshop 2
The hunker down played coy in the beginning,
expecting an hand-drawn invitation,
but New York is sad now,
like a fat worm
wrapped around am emaciated light pole,
so why are my feet
as solid as the earth,
which says nothing
about the weather,
or anything else
really –
just mush
in a sandlot,
all these lonely eyes wanting to play,
truce or not,
and you,
my friend,
so full
of lost conversations
and other dead things,
that will grow, die,
decompose,
grow,
die,
and decompose again,
whenever we
decide,
this voyage
is over