out in the meadows.
Cars will stop as I cross
the street of dreams.

Collages of stars
that sustain
the Western Dream.

So I'm living off of tuna cans.
The metallic garbage smells of
salty water & broken shards.

I'm too old to be young,
too fragile to stay out in the night
when all I want is a good joke to laugh at
instead of a bad morning story.

I write better when I don't write
with a sense of purpose.

And I like it.
The rain outside, I open the door
& let them shelter inside.

And just like that,
with all the mercury in my blood,
I leave the door opened.