REPEAT OF THIS
The gutters run with mud, inches
deep, and - where trucks have sloshed
through - the tracks are deeply etched.
Mute and strapped, this whole, entire,
tired world is running down but yet still
drips Love - a wander-skate, an echo,
an heirloom. They've managed to gather
up the old, discarded Christmas trees,
thrown willy-nilly where they were.
People are done with them now, and
they are dead. Dead too is any Life
their growth-to-expectations may once
have held; so much like these storm-tossed
people. Too bad. Who cares? Their tainted
surf has thrown them gravel and sand -
their boardwalks and promenades, they
maintain, are gone as well. Too bad. Who
cares? No more glitter palace and no more
sleazy bars; no more boozy, frothy girls
spreading lips for tips. Oh, oh, even the
ocean is in mourning. Too bad. Who cares?
I'm sure the drop drops for nothing at all.
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