work in progress
thousands of souls
meander along the street
(most, rushing)
looking to arrive
somewhere.
I’m walking among them.
small outstretched hands,
composed of China
and nicotine stains,
rub silk bibs,
leaving smears
of labor.
the wool of men
and cotton of dresses
torn from bodies
are discarded
by the window
by the bed.
the neighbor
is an old man
living in a city shack;
he likes to watch
young couples
experiment.
outside
the garden
is tender watered
by sweat
dripping from the windows.
sidewalks arch like spine
of a new born
cities’ teen years spent building,
moulded by soft hands of ballots;
it is now a disgruntled coat -
an injured compass.
the beds are being bought.
some beds are being paid for.
most take time
and energy
like sex.
we pass by the young couple's
bedroom window
and the old man
watching.
we're talking
patterns and
walking circles.
everyone owes
everyone money
for owning a bed.
I don't owe anyone money
I don't own a bed.
Jeremiah Walton