A poem

Brushes back, the umbrage,
A lurch, a turn. Oh, those are hard words,
To start my day.
The radiators flare, and clank, and say
they’re
Trying hard, but it’s not working.
Neither is this.
Neither is this.
A sore tooth, and a song – your song,
Always the same. Why can’t you
Find a corner of a solid room?
It is a disgrace.
Soup on the couch, for lunch, like a child home from school
While sixteen men are needed to drain the pool
While other men walk a ragged line with lanterns, just one
Section of a long, dumb wait.
I remember. But I don’t remember how I ever wrote a decent poem,

and I don’t remember what I ever cared about, or why. The feeling’s dim and
Slow, an old laborer rests like a dumb dog, except without the
labor or the deep sore lines from iron climbs, or a smart sharp suit,
The signs are lines, the lines are signs. None of it. I never had any of it.