This poem is for Jane Kokernak of Leaf, Stitch Word, who saw this sight and wondered what I would make of it. “I don’t know why,” she said. “Because I write about weird shit,” I answered. “Oh, that’s true. You do.” Natch.
She asked me why a street might need its own
Pillow, off-white against concrete, light
And fluffy when compared to tar, all crabbed
And broken from wheels and feet and packages
Dropped, lives dropped. What moving student
Dropped the pillow, distracted, overloaded, and
Eager for freedom in a new space of his own?
No matter. No man’s pillow now resides here
In no-man’s land, as everyman tramples this
Sidewalk, proceeding from home to work,
From bliss to worries and woes. The sidewalk
Itself wearies from the eternal sickly glow of
Streetlamps, damp leaves, cigarette ends still
Smoking themselves. The sidewalk longs for sleep.
Now, Jane, send me the picture and I will write the other half of this poem…