sometimes, all that's left
is all right, and it doesn't need
age or fresh spirit

(because, like new leaves after the growth spurt
of an old tree
two houses down the next street,

it just keeps on
producing bad fruit).

we should let the wind make its music
while it continues to be harmless,

and we should encourage sobriety in the schoolyard
while the children know enough to listen.

while there are excusable health hazards
on their hands,
they lose our soap bars
into dirty pools and

things like blood-drives
in dark basements, mary jane in ashes
between the floorboards
and unadulterated grime between the keyboard's notes,

leaking tired melodies
into exhausted shells.

they say
the world is hell,
leaning against learned romantics
and caveman walls
of rude talent.

and we should let them linger
in their speeches,
i believe,

because it is the simple things that murder
most efficiently.