Rain / Dream: 10
Rusted-out pistols and old vacuum
cleaner parts piled in a pick-up bed,
neon flash-blink of the Urgent Motel,
overlooked personal situations
that curve back and carve a blood-
gully in your whitewashed niche.
This is you on line at the Safeway
in front of a film noir blonde
making selfies. This is you buying
a plane ticket to Damascus or Kiev...
anywhere you can write poems
about electrical cord hangings.