DISCO

Blown back 

towards home pre-

mature and sniffling, by huge 

blue sheets 

of wind, starchy

and stiff with square 

blocks of city

silt, and just 

when I'm thinking—hell,

everything in front of me
seems dead 

or mostly

on its 

last legs, anyway;

there—across 

that last street, 

and fatally 

flagrant inside

the lurid 

swaying box of black

which can

barely contain it—suddenly flashes 

and bleats

the wild throbbing  

beat, of a huge 

orange open-

fist, beckoning—

hurry 

quick, hurry 

up, step

on it,

kid, look—the 

thing is, you're right: death

is coming. 

But

life is—

not 

waiting

for that.