hollyhocked and sootstained, tread
heavy from the east of Highbank, near
the mouth, near the river, taking points
to touch the pier. we've messed and sullied
the chaste hands that churn us like a bitter
butter, spread evenly across each other.
courting the idols that have been tossed
so gaunt, bringing the wrought of many such
men, architects and what not.

amputee 'round the corner near Parsons,
sells flowers from a cinderblock perch that
next to it has a cordial mess of ungroomed posies,
adjunct to that there is a bar where many gather
outside to sulk and spit from their swollen lips the
smell of salted cigerettes, dripped ashes land and dust
off the pavement where soda/gum/blood has rested before it.
Trimmed around a pole, obscured by the chainlocked tandem
bikes that a couple rode there. Watched as someone put their
American Spirit out on the tiretread and watched it burn a hole
right through it. Laughed, saw her walk inside and...
I walked home.