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A Mad Gypsying On

i wonder if those cackling coyotes

hiking the surrounding fields sound

anything like Hell, well, i sure hope not.

Hell would be a terrible place to be.

 

still, i feel and fill with remorse.

it’s the middle of November and

it’s ruthless Ohio with her revenge.

with the love of fall beneath her

and the sparkling of frost in her hair,

beginning in the morning under a

fingernail clipped moon and too

far away stars and few headlights,

ohio offers her lullaby here, now.

 

scraggly pups made of fur and bone,

calloused paws to a calloused ground,

tough like old brick and new cement

and an icy pitch bark that bites back.

 

people are being pulled from these

pages that used to keep me wide awake

but now only keep me sad and conscience

in the too broad daylight in clean clothes

reading things too keep me soul sick,

to correlate with groggy afternoon insanity

that is not like tonight’s cold but like a

burning city, with me, standing—waiting

at the pier with the commotion of some

kind of humanity bleeding from the parks,

avenues, alleys, clubs, bars, and markets

but i only see the smoke and hear the clamor.

 

the rest is made up i suppose,

and my heart in the other senses.

 

but it is too true for those

coyotes in that cold and

i dare not let them in.


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