I’d really love to
the ghost: been scrubbing
of false starts and easy
rainboots so tired
of making statement
on the sidewalks,
my box of pencils
one purple sock
to my name
that rasping voice
Someone’s sad eyes remind me:
we were too late for the gold rush.
They’re cranking chords at the piano.
Lonesome thumping. Rubberfist. Sawdust.
Satin feathers ruffle my chest.
Outside, ravens shush around the doorstep like a crime scene.
Sun squeaking over treeline and only three beers left
for the night. Can’t see my breath.
one day in the riverbed is muscle.
In the morning I had six matches and a pick-axe.
The eyes knew it since the piano strings snapped.
And out in the chapped yard one raven
winked slyly at the gravel dawn.