Dust Waiting to Happen
P.H. Madore
Homeless in an October Virginia
I wondered if I’d
Ever get my eggs basketed
Squatting a post-travel D. C.
I swore to stay true
Even in my last days
The days, these ones
So strange & priceless
Like canned soup:
Heat
Serve
Store
Reheat
Grub
Waste
(& do so in best health)
Warmed in a new friend’s condo
Things look up &
I squinted at the future
Waiting in a November Baltimore
I wonder if I’ll
Ever have my shit gathered
The days, these ones
So transient & expensive
Like America:
Jobs
Tickets
Money
Records
Telephones
Handcuffs
(& all of it dust waiting to happen)
Yet it’s wondered widely
In microcosms & secret:
will
I
ever have
the almighty It
together?
Meaning one’s dust
Is sticky enough for sale
To others who’ll never matter
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