CRYING FOR A VISION

In this world

you could

cry for a vision

That short strip

of East Tenth Street

was a long walk

for a little kid

Sidewalk littered

with horse chestnuts

Horse and cart

rag man

clopping up the street

calling out for

                        Rags!

                        Rags!

Emma next door

Julia down the block

Leukemia wraith angel

            Richard

on a stoop

around the corner

You could cry

for a vision

you could holler

and get drunken

dads and uncles

Polish Falcons in their hearts

stumbling into houses

made of brooms and mops

holy water in the taps

bird daughter straining up

   from her crib

greedy for whatever

she can get

You could cry

you could holler

You could crawl on all fours
in your grandfather's living room

tattered wolf pelt on your back

and get a cane

across the ass

with a get-outta-here
snarled
worse than any wolf.

You could cry for a vision

   you could holler

You could sit on a rock

in an empty lot

grinning like the bag-of-bones

   you are

‘til the sun dries you up

and you’re just a skull

on your own bone pile

that some dog you thought

   was yours

is pissing on

And maybe

at that moment

a long haired

loose limbed

sun tanned

   kid

will come along

and laugh and

time

will

stop

as you

are illuminated

and become

that kid’s vision.

(thanks, Van)

(and Candy Teeth Creative)