My bones are rusted,
leaky pipes
in that back alley
on Howard street
where my windows eye
twenty-somethings
shootin' the breeze
over whatever issue glides
through their mind at the time,
cutting their own kite strings
with scissor-sharp fingernails
they unwind,
conjoining over joints,
the fun times.

Where'd my friends go?

I feel heavy-headed,
elbows sore from resting
my cinder block chin
on them for hours,
watching these hooligans
in tye-dye rags
flutter down
the gutters of King street
like circus clowns.
And cirrus clouds
wander through
and over Boone
while I hunker,
disregarding the news,
the **** protesters
arrested by the blues
and I can't help
but hum along
with a gold finch
perched on a rhododendron
growing by my side
wall where some
graffiti artist
sprays the word
“Exist.”