Mean streets have become mossy

and I wonder how my feet feel

traveling over wobbly chestnuts

versus urine-soaked pavement.

The whoosh of a fresh fall wind

versus the hum of a subway

with its reeking hot air and rattling grate.

The shadows of trees versus churches.

We pray where we stop a minute.

.

My view is frost-covered and sparkling

and all I can think

is how I’ve become invisible and irrelevant

because I’ve made it so.

My hero is a vulgar flyer:

a cynical mass of meat

who still believes

in romance, not like in books

but as in a tangle of

flawed limbs finding a way

to make living worthwhile,

usually with a laugh

and an arrow pointed inwards.

A sweeping of color

to mask the deep green

of summer at dusk.

Friday is an old heavy window

falling on my fingers

because I can’t help

but fiddle with the view.

The wind is the best partner

for dancing by yourself.

.

I dropped sadness in the rain,

and torment in late night,

muffled in the pillow.

.

I’ve never seen a pollywog

dance atop a coal heap,

but I do have a mirror.

.

Look at any disaster

and you’ll see yourself.

I don’t blame myself

for tripping over

sidewalks or wanting

beyond reason.

It’s no bother

keeping it to myself

now; staying awake

most of the night

and dreaming away

the day is as good

a plan as any

to survive surviving.