Cotton & grease
He could
not begin to begin,
perusing
the night as it was
with its
neon fancies and smells,
this spoken
dark without a face.
Watery
streaks on spider-web streets,
the map
criss-crossing lost causes;
drunk men
stagger, caress walls,
invisible
to the suits whistling home.
This railroad
smarts, rattling cage,
crawls into
the bowels of the earth,
while
solitude sits spun in cotton
and grease.
He thinks of how to begin.
Copyright
Vickie Johnstone, November 15, 2020
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