My voices took a walk. I went with them. Down Franklin street past the mansion. The biggest, oldest for sale. Garbage dumpster spray painted red, trash spilling out in excess. The ivy quakes, carpets brick buildings. Sweet chlorine from the YMCA, the street corner owned by smell. A hair salon on the second floor. Not open. Open sign for a coffee shop braces a broken window. Across the street someone’s shooting a movie. An old star making a comeback or not coming back at all. Can’t I just remain anonymous? A city tries and fails or I’m failing in it, a bad relationship, living in water, moving in water, moving molasses. I had something else I wanted to say about sitting on bones 8 hours a day. My body’s layers hurt. I live under a thick coat. I’m writing thought I don’t want to. Listen to my shoes. What’s poetic about old purple shoes, chipped nails attached to hips I can’t feel?
Leave a Reply