The Broom In My Hands

we walk the edge of suicidal silence, sweeping shadows beneath curtains with brooms made of straw. while somewhere soupbones boil in the pot, and the sound of coffee making startles children's trains on tiny tracks.. the heroin news grates against the mind, and dogs wait in silent anticipation. Jesus dies again, a matinee, the Bill Of Rights stutters neath a thin layer of dirt. travelling shoe salesmen grope lady's legs, and old men on park benches peer over bifocals. the woman ironing, in her bra and panties, quietly curses, with trembling hands! bare chested men split wood in the sun, while boys tinker on cars with oily hearts. the soldier returned home to no home, hangs himself from the rafters. a picture of his baby boy, falls from his pockets. crows gather on a wooden fence rail, the young woman lights a crack pipe, staring at naked walls. while dead bodies march in lines that rhyme, with buildings left empty, and mailboxes spilling over. the soft silk of the thigh, and the lip turned up... names whispered and lost, small rooms speak of distance. be it love, be it madness, the clock falls from the wall. and nothing feels real.... except the broom in my hands!