The tramp, laced with corridors,
Cramped, lampooned in alleys,
Curtailed and cautioned,
Damp and contracted,
Graced and misplaced,
Gentle, like butter on toast,
The edge of street side.
The ghost of the house owner,
Misshapen and lined with
Sinking fog, that breathes in
And freezes motion
Solid.
The lakes of garbage,
Running around hedges and
Battery car windows,
Have grown to nothing more
Than palatable mush,
Entombed in cigarette smoke
On a rusty, de-wheeled bike.
The mess that we all made,
Still has open wounds.
That weep between the frog
Cries and owl screams.
Once in a while the rain comes
And washes some rubbish away.
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