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werewolf
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you are near the end of the
traffic of a city dusk,
and you see
a brief stretch of open road,
some tall buildings, stil a few trees,
and there's rhythm in blues on the radio,
guiding you like a trail,
to someone's warm arms,
somewhere you can hang up
the old armor and necktie.
people all in their cars,
the few strays on sidewalks
with signs
trying to make you make eye contact
because then they know they have you.
the people in their cars
all look at the people standing on those corners, as if they have stepped out into space,
wondering how they can breathe,
afraid to open their window to that poison.
and the sky starts to fall,
in little wet drops,
always has it always has,
and yet remains tomorrow,
somethings erased or
jarred into something new.
and our hands are cold,
our hands are tired,
at the wheel of our car,
aimed at tall buildings or trees,
tensed straight past anyone
outside where your hands
grow cold till they can't
even tense anymore.
and we're all a little cold.
but there's rhythm and blues
on the radio for us,
singing about honey,
or else a blue day,
sky like a canopy bed,
hands to cradle our head.
and it comes from the sky,
maybe it's god,
or a church we all pray at,
never looking at our neighbor
till they tell us to
shake hands for peace.
and it gives us all a little extra,
warms the hands a bit,
makes you want to step
out and feel the sky,
not let it get past you.
some people take that
little extra,
and they reach out into the cold,
they shake
hands for peace,
they sing rhythm and blues together.
the sky's like a canopy bed,
you got that outstretched hand in your head.
the sky ain't going to erase me till i touch the sun again.
god gave us the rhythm and blues,
the rest is up to us.
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040119
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