Friday, May 17, 2013

God of Bosworth

From a veiled 
stoop with skinny cigarette
drooping—the crazy old man

bids good morning
and ignites a silver lighter, kick-
starting the idle neighborhood.
At once there are
the sounds
of motors turning, birds alighted on
poplars singing glory to the power-
washers lambasting the brown-
stone—and all around, the scrappy
choir resounds
his scrawny hymn for him:
let there be
doubleparking!—and sympathy 
for steep embankments!
wireless home phones to the busy-
bodies framed by dark picture

lids to the late-to-work stout-
hearted; and strolling

to the pastel silk-shirted!