And It Goes On

I'm clean these days: making a living, no more dope, or love-ins, freak-ins, or think-ins; I play sax, and it's a living, an opposite ocean, nearby to home, relax; and the children play outside, in the cavernous street; and the butter melts over the toasted pie, drips hot onto the traffic problem, the ghetto girls, and into the pale, turquoise sky I'm clean these days.