feathers in the book pages
like faded print flies away...
morning stifled by dusty curtains
why is the bedroom so cold?
awaited phone calls muffled by
the last tone of a flatline
and the monitor fades black and we
are leftholding on to nothing butcolorless photographs
takenfrom their gaudy silver frame
son the dresser.
the fire has died and all
i can hear is a
clock chime,
four,
five.
i used to be in this very room
when it was alive
and i was a child.
when the armchair was occupied
and now the fire has died
and the only one in the armchair
is that old tattered afghan
his wife knitted


eighteen years ago.

like the traffic lights on
46th and broad
we change our futures
and j-walk fate
like it's just anotherstreet.
and
our inner city dreams
became so small
(i thinkthey can fit
through the storm drain)