(Woo hoo! Double digits!)
In the white noise of a dark night,
in a silence I cautiously enter,
my journal reflects the moon’s empty page.
This is a place in which I inhabit. Inside
a whole city faces foreclosure,
the buildings I have abandoned,
whole neighborhoods so sparse, jobless,
vandals have taken all the best words and fixtures.
The chrome faucets, the copper pipes—
gone. The crepe myrtles have been
cut to the quick, their fuchsia buds
now dried and curled along the curb.
The ground is coffin cold. Who do I talk to
about this failed infrastructure?
What laws can I break tonight?
Who is the world comes to a place
that smells like burnt leaves and traffic?
This is a place I visit but do not live.
This is a place in need of repair, of rain,
of an owner who can wield
a pen like a shovel