the son of an insomniac, i’m practiced at hearing the little
bells of a restless night ring before arrival. how the cut
angle of my neighbor’s porch light knifes past slat blinds
in slants to remind me, somewhere, the world is hard
at work. whole years i learned to roll shut the factory doors
of my eyes, to seal out the city’s soundings, asleep, until
i found myself again leaning in the half-open door
of my mind. its neon cravings screamed the night
awake. it may sound predictable but i never understood,
given time, the heart’s hunger will eat even the body.
it may seem obvious to say it but, given practice,
the body’s dark streets will learn to echo back
night’s province of pawn shops, windows full of treasure,
hand-scrawled ads promising salvation for the price
of just a few keepsakes. at this dim threshold i’ve haunted
too many times, too dull for the drunk or delirious to find
comfort, where billboards mouth their horseshit vows
and wind labors to lift each breath at my shirtsleeve,
i’m practiced at bending low to the jewel cases until
even my mud brown eyes are gems looped with string
and it’s not romantic, the way daylight breaks the color
of bullion on this street. magpies shriek the day
awake. Laundromats open their damp mouths
to gargle with coins.