Days and Deeds

There will never be enough rain to whet my appetite
for what comes next, another drink wonít fix the hole
in the wall and another cigarette seems a waste of good
fire. There are days with deeds that are better left undone
and plans better off left unspoken. The Number 5 glides
down the street, the thwack, thwack of wiper blades
and the mean hiss of hydraulics drown out the sound
of drizzle against my pane. Last stop. Last chance.
Better make it work, baby. This one is for the world,
for the earth-the sand that shifts beneath waves and waves
of mutilation. This one is for streets crippled by cabs intent
on pulling the sun forward because time doesnít know
reverse. Donít tell me we arenít dying because even stones
stuck between the tire tread can feel the betrayal. Go ahead,
cruise down St Francis, watch women dance in the windows
while the moon lays ground work for indecision. Piece by
broken piece the day will reassemble itselfóthe alleys, shiny
from greed will lose their signers and hustlers, morning
will tuck them into tight corners where even the wind gets
lost. On the corner thereís a bus stop and in that moment
between ticks of the clock I can hear the answer youíve been
looking for. It doesnít shine and itís far from smooth;
itís crooked and wonít bend no matter how many prayers are said.

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