So it's dreary out
in the contorted pocket
of the pinball machine
city where you
lurk in the morning—still you can
smell it: the cigarettes
and burnt french
toast sticks—clinging to the grimy air,
wordlessly infiltrating
a dead-pigeon situation:
to careen around, lost in the
maze of creation
is never a waste of time;
it's more—lying
down and staying
put where you are
that could
really cost you bigtime.
