Black coffee in a paper cup
falls into a dialogue with a century of waste.
Get ready to bawl out the horizon
on its little birthday. Squeeze me
in hindsight screwed to the wall.
A good price for a calm conclusion
enters through the ear then,
scaring off a fresh carom of ball;
days fly deftly as a tossed milk pouch
my alma mater dramatized.
These images practice what no one preaches
too carefully, or at all—
I have only two hands on earth;
the rest are fatal flaws in the city,
a glorious production no one comes to see.
In time a street you once put trust in
reveals itself into a deep sleep,
hard of hearing, the hardest so far.