Corpses see more things in a day, than
I see in a whole week. And my knees have
always been weak, cartilage that creaks
like Midwest storm doors: rusty and kept
closed for Winter- Because, he has rough
hands and secret plans that keep Fall
on the cusp of another breakdown.
The poor bastard has leaky hands. Ones,
that lift the dresses on all the pretty girls
and all their pretty curls bounce in our eyes.
Some that make us tell white lies. Ones,
that mix gin and tonic to bring cold skin inside.
Homeless see more violence in a day than
I see on television, because when Summer
stumbles into town it’s the clouds he keeps,
from coming around: more motion in my
stomach than needs to be said- Because here,
we all have plans that are rough around the edges.