by Bill Yarrow

tomorrow's work                                             I should go home
I wander toward                                              the midnight dock
a neon sine curve                                            stabs my eyes

I clutch my hollows                                         like a brick
The future holds                                              my brother's pain
my darkest fears                                              by hopes inflate

a black gull dives                                             a painter's gloves
the cobblestones                                             deny the clouds
my wants and needs                                      are not aligned