To: Those Who Think That Where They Are Is Why They Are

He walks the streets
night lit down
searching for murders
and often finds them
Standing far back to treasure
the jeweled squealings
the liquid blessings
for asphalt and broken glass

Sucking meats from smallish bones
he grins
to remember spare delight
and shuddered tenderness
Grease wanders from his face
congeals
and melts again

He washes his hands
in the pools of battery acid and antifreeze
that gather behind the ZipLube on 9th Street
and he knows it is a good place to be
Red and black checkered flannel
is a kind of solace
and the sun that rises behind his eyes
is no less dim than that one, there, on that horizon



(Originally published in Blue Mesa Review, 1992)