4 Jan
the dirt on the window sill has left an impression.
collecting signs of what has been so easily forgotten.
a corner store cigar salesman rambles on the maladies of this world
and his leanings on it all, audienced only by smoke and dirt
suffice to say I find myself in the middle of somewhere still,
without silence but without words to chime or whistle
the cigar salesman smells bad
and his wig is on crooked
but he's got something to say about this crooked world
this oblique sphere, hygienically challenged
seems he's got an audience somewhere,
if only for a second
a new year,
the dirt on the window sill,
stagnate yet patient,
anticipating applause.....
