ALL DAMNED TO
MY CONTENTMENT
If there was a frog beneath my shirt,
at the center of my chest, it would
look like my beating heart. You could
think so anyway. If there was a lamp
atop my head, shining, it could look
like a brilliant idea coming forth. You
could think so, anyway.
-
As it is, this lousy walkup on 23rd,
patterned after nothing so much as
defeat, is due to come down by the
wrecking ball soon. Not knowing
where I'll be after that, nothing else
much matters. Across the way, already,
they are detaching doors and windows.
-
I remember so many things - patterned,
like designs upon a fancy shirt, or even
the plain patterns of flannel. They each
have their color and hue - here flame,
their plain. Why does one life, I now
wonder, bring forth such a mix?
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