Black Ice and Half a French Fry
Northern vagabond winter is coming to peck you apart
It has a black, icy heart
as it kisses your blue lips
the blood will leave the limbs
to protect the soul of the heart.
but city people won't bring you in.
They've just clawed from under- a summer of blood
they're conditioned not to trust your skin color.
Country folk are no better, though
they stoke the hearth
the dirty nails of Jesus- crack the yellow blinds
no food nor compassion is birthed from these hollow times.
Head south, vagabond,
follow the heartbeat of the sun.
At least you can dream in conch and tangerine...
The people won't lend a hand here either.
But you'll have the soothing of salty air, a pillow of warm sand.
The ocean breeze will play alto sax
a choir of gulls will tell you about God...
For half a French fry.
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