Sometimes I
  pray for dawn,
    for this city
     to wake up
      & release a
   cacophony of
noise, for
engines to start
   & kettles to boil,
    for workers to
     drill huge holes
    in dirt roads,
anything but this 
   silent abyss
     that makes me
   want to flee
 mid sleep,
steal a car;
 ignite a spark
    in a never
        ending dark

I see two fire trucks pass each other
going opposite directions.
As I’m trying to think of a clever metaphor
for poor planning
I remind myself that at least one family
is standing in a thigh high pile of fine ash
that was their home
just an hour ago.
Maybe two families.
These thoughts and others haunt me when I’m pulled from my duck footed sidewalk reverie
by a lottery ticket stuck in the riff-raff that separates
Gateway Ave from the parking lot of the Nervous Hospital.
It is laid bare like a mugging victim;
crumpled up and inches from the gutter.
That was someone’s dream
just a day ago.
Think I’ll cross the street-
give that homeless vet a dollar.
It’s my last one.
My house has fleas, but
it ain’t on fire.