everyday, small town

Up a steep hill, sweat to get there to another door to another door

to a closed store

Students live in Victorian bones unwashed skins and sit on porches

communing with the lice

Nearby there are empty store windows, behind duct taped cardboard a random unsold object and

down the street a selection of ethnic food options

Dad sits mostly silent with his college son in one and eats a big piece of bread scooping up the lamb. Proudly unfurling the wallet, he pays the bill. That’s a kiss.

I wonder if my friend at Columbia saving her poet’s ass by doing a doctorate ever walked by

Mahmoud now hidden under a precipice dangling over nothing?

The thorn in my side has been plucked

By poppies in the midst of the swirling disasters of the everyday..