today I walked across
a little old bridge which hung
above a modest lake diseased in toxins.
is summer, are a few men fishing,
some young some old, some swans, two,
floating by the shore peopled by lazy
folks laying in the sun near willow trees.
I've forgotten to bring my matches.
I ponder this cigarette,
I look to the fisherman and ask for a light
A cracked vase, ashes on a window-sill.
Detrimental pictures of members of your family
you severely detest nailed to the blue walls.
nagging hunger urging you
and you prepare your early morning
meal half-heartedly. Comforting monotony
of this particular ritual.all men must eat,
and women too. Chipped and peeling tiles.
furniture rearranged. sunlight
through the window. wind in the curtains.
I've hung up my laundry and I've cleaned
the black sheets. And the clouds turn
into myself, I smoke a cigarette
and smell the cold winter fragrance.
out on the porch, my boots on ,
and the smoke clings to my coat,
smoke and mist thinking
about everything I don't own.
That guitar I've yet to play
lies in a corner of my room.
a spider resides inside
it's wooden belly I suspect.
old dusty webs where the music would be.
By Billy Herzog