Saturday

This song, this wind is cool
on my bones, as I stand
at the edge of the day.
This shirt is course between
the tips. Folded in my
fingers, a sail set, a hand-
kerchief, not a surrender.
Money for a quiet mind.

Down the street, a blod clot
woman shouting the neighborhood
down, she's proud. Her anger
is curling through the far window
of this evening, and somebody
has done her wrong.
Some work attire, some smoke
without fire, some stupid girl
who has the key to Angelo's door.

I cradle my aching arms,
throw a cover over this
beautiful day, this yawning
beast that lies down, a lioness
in a grassy hollow on some
endless plain. Another time,
another place, far from any coast.
I take a sip, hug my knees
and listen for the distant rows
that break at every hour
between the bricks, behind
the many curtains, on the worn
carpets of Cypress House.