I walk in a poem

late at night that sings no sober song,

no lyrics for the living,

toss in a few lines for the dead.

It fetters my anger

with hostility and sticky jam between

my toes and worn out shoes.

I find myself walking 2300 Western

Avenue in Chicago at 3 A.M. like a damn dummy;

thinking of Mayor Daily’s sales tax proposals,

lack of health care in this country unlike anywhere else

free in the world,

and some boxers who shoplifted some goods

out of Marshal Fields department store earlier

in the evening-

no one is here to spit at me,

to fist my face in brick,

or steal my wallet silly,

or my car keys or jiggle coins

out of my jean pockets.

Disgusting, it hangs,

it beats metal drums in my ears

Over and over, like a pistol going off.

Loneliness is an elbow plunged

in one’s ribcage at night.

I get in my car, bruised,

bandaged,

go home-

wait for God,

sprinkle prays

for the fairy dust

of healing.

Go about, the next day,

my crusades for the world.

No one is here.