purity turns lace when cut with a blade
into powder like blush,
snow falls gingerly upon
the lines of the streets
where rookies drift and raft
through ice.
oh but the snow,
arranged into lines
is the best way
to work the night shift,
to cut straws into sizes
wallets will carry
cause you’re tired of paying
for gas with bills rolled tight
like the hogback mountains.
i walk on clouds above rainforests in my eyes,
but everything turns to dust as i
am ready for the next bump.
“times are a changin”, Bob Dylan sings
as my father rolls his bills tighter than mine.
one thing i am sorry for
is that i cannot go back to days
of waking up in bathtubs or
upon washing machines
in towns i do not know
names of.
i loved taking drags and
smelling bumps on the road
from nowhere
to underground.
i love sleeping in cars with windows
down and jam up high while
i am high too,
on no sleep for three days
and incense butts,
feet resting out the window
and running from police
at a time of night
when only the crows can sing.
Photo by Rob Sarmiento on Unsplash
