The city pounds along outside
with the drum of hustling, mindless feet,
And I lie here in the blinding darkness
-smells of sweat, dust, and shame sewn into my sheets-

Gray sunlight puts a spotlight on
the crevices of this place where all of my
smog has invaded every space.
                                           me, myself, and i
                                           suffocate in here.
It takes shape as a ghost shifting from
on foot to another
-or maybe it glides over the broken pieces-
And it beckons softly
And it curls its wispy fingers around my collarbones
trying to get me to rise from
a bed turned to ashes.

A funeral procession marches past my vision
in a cloud of black raincoats never worn,
done hair frizzy in the fog,
and the pearls she finally got when he finally got
Put into the warm soil for one last time.
There’s a girl in yellow galoshes I saw at
the store that reminds me of an archived memory,
so she holds out her petite hand and pulls me
to where?

In this chain gang of mourners,
I am at the end of the line awaiting the blessed fingertips
of a porcelain doll to caress my heart and let me go.
This line goes on to the horizon of my knowledge and to the depths
of my fears
And I am still here at this wake.
                                               wake .
                                                          wake  . 
                                                          Wake up.
We will always lay here in a heap
at the foot of the mountain molehill that
I never had a chance at climbing
And all those people march on without looking up at
    me.