If you were looking hard enough
the imbalances might become familiar to you
suddenly grit blooms
crossing avenues and hitting you with the smell
that this is the taste of someone suffering
the single occupancy motels turned into florist shops
and the scars of the old side walks erased
somehow the invisible don’t belong anywhere ever
at any time or in any place
where we would be reminded of them
unattended trash bags are the poems
of an unnerving threat
where is it’s owner?
how many dirty socks and broken umbrellas
might be orphaned in there?
mocking us, calling us
when dark storms move into places already cold
no one is as filled with dread as some that I know
Pete, Frenchy, Allen, Tara-
you seem to sleep with the history of a world that can never be told
grafted onto your arms under bridges
every night, all nights
and that frightens me most of all.