PLUGGED POEM # 6
The anarchists smell bad.
Their cat pushed around on a rolling desk chair
Like an invalid in a poorly made wheelchair
Down the street
Their hair frayed like burlap sacks
The homeless men that collapse on benches at eleven pm.
In Tompkins Square park
In the Hare Krishna circle
Even though the park closes at midnight
A random man slouches.
With exhaustion
His shirt announces that
"Shit Is Coming"
There are circles of kids who are younger than me.
But older than they look
Hold secret meetings to be viewed by all
Midwestern and eager to spread a new cheery brand of desolation
That is going to be eaten by the fatigue they
Will inherit
When the winter slush polluted with the subway sewage stains
The ends of their long free-spirited denim
The man in white.
That is really fucking skinny
And has a serene face with a disturbing grimace
That never talks to anyone on Houston
Below or above
Sailing past the American Apparel store
Where people sit on metal benches as if they weren't
Sitting in front of American Apparel,
No one has a sense of irony about the things they really should wish they weren't doing
Making the world uglier
And the man in white has been here a long time,
I was told.
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