Carry On Carrion

The city’s people’s patterns looked like mortar.

I think we’re talking Wednesday, here.

The river’s water’s heaviness was looking like

a long grey sock, until it reached a deeper 

water, and began to look different.

The coming crises wore their finest cloaks,

flashing a bit of ankle, the fonts of theatre

menus. Oooooooooooooooh, Matron,

I thought, and headlonged out the coffee-shop

to shelter inside the rain. What undid

me in the end, wet entering my espadrilles,

a clutch of skeletal piano chords dribbling

from windows, was someone somewhere sighing,

We get it, man, stuff’s like other stuff.