like I'm the valet
at an intergalactic car-park
and I started my shift late
with all the work
jostling to get out of studio
and the new ones
gaspin' air,
feet out on furniture already
of my brain pan
comics, sad-sacks,
pretty eyed dreams.
foundlings I can't bear
drop back in the dirt
they all come
blackjack, dusters, cudgel and gun
to dust up in the last bit
of my hourglass
a billion sparrows trying to get fat
like that last pinch of sand
was wheat
and here I am
worrying 'bout who's going to feed 'em
where they gonna roost
come winter
Stockwell - May 2026