NUANI
I can miss my shoes and go barefoot;
yes, the differences are not that real.
Beach sand underfoot, even in these
long-abandoned sections of the nowhere
I inhabit, they can comfort. Farther down
the industrial end, I can never believe
the things I see - what they used to do
around here. No care for the natural part
of the world, for sure : there are ancient
baked bricks, and old piles of rusted
steel. Two or three cars cannibalized,
years ago for parts. Or maybe even
evidence, who knows. In a long stretch,
warehouse doors, now dead and broken,
gape open where mattresses and lumber
spill. Some pigeons flutter, I'd bet watching
the rats. The old chain-link fence leans
at the gate from where trucks have hit it.
It's a sorry and a forlorn world we leave,
and I'll take a powder to the essence of what
it brings : those aftershaves that smell like
Death, and those piles of cast-off clothes
to be readied for their African export. Ever
see a Nuani tribesman wearing a tee-shirt
that reads 'Disneyworld?' I have.
No comments:
Post a Comment