Poetry

My Valley Is the Street

Photo by Dimi Katsavaris on Unsplash

Homeless.

I knock on the store window
hoping nobody’s within
my feet in flames if they are
my mouth as my cudgel
I’ll roar like a beast hoping they’ll run

Restaurant.

Cold food nestled within
the putrid discards of more fashionable lives
the discovery of some old bread
I peel open like old citrus
digging past the moldy crust

Sleep

No dreams tonight, or any night,
just the silent, blank winds of an alcoholic storm
no reminders of better days
no interludes into sweetened memories
interceding with my immutable empty tomorrows

Awake

I rub my grizzled filthy face
wondering why the gods didn’t take me
astonished, really, my eyelids crispy
as if caked with glue
the chilling morning air damp and frozen

Tomorrow