“Yes,” is the sound I make
At this crossroads, barren,
And cold.
A clean-cut cringe, hoarse
Noise of boisterous old men
Sitting, playing.
Slapping hands, applause
Of slight defeat to one man,
Atop the tower of cards.
The power lines watch him
From above. Critters of the sky,
Perch with worms and bugs,
Even babies in their bellies.
Harboring the coming
Change.
My bare ****** catches
The attention of watchers,
Voyeurs, timid learners,
Who all like the examples
But seldom skid any stones
Themselves.
I’ve put down the kin,
I’ve put down the knife,
I’ve put down the selfish night
Owl, eyes teeming now,
With respect,
Dilated, humbly begetting,
Stealing with sight.