Black Powder

I’m broke ‘n’ don’t think I like it too much. Last night’s cab ride. No one turns the wheel now. I stare through cathedrals whose glass I can’t touch. I want to go home but I can’t see how. Snow blind. A slow rolling conveyor belt. Fresh plumes of spiraled smoke smoldering air. A fire outside. Flooded roads start to melt. I want to get out but can’t pay the fare. Grey sparrows take refuge in candlelight song, their throaty notes grapple Gregorian chants. I’ve stolen music where short breaths draw long; where spared by my own Dark’s draconian dance. Slow down the belt. Thin tin buckles. Louder. Churned poverty stops - returns as black powder. 11/13/2018