The August morning shines. I clutch my coat

With fingers twining, cuddling cotton arms.

The air feels wet with odor-oozing pores,

And you can hardly walk a block before

You see the dust and clay stuck to your chest.

There is no wind; this planet sucks. I pass

A couple on a jog. Their arms are splayed

In artful disarray, a set set out

On store display. He offers her a swig

Of “Pure Spring Water,” takes his B6 pills,

She’s got a cell phone wired to her ear.

They separate without a break in stride.

A moment—then the winds restore my sight.

They scatter dying leaves along my path,

Yeah, “dying with a dying fall;” that crap,

But that’s the park, man, giving me the creeps.

The dead go crunch. I hope those fucking cooks

Next door don’t burn my new apartment down.

---

So maybe I’ll go home, or to a club,

And sit upon a stool near nuzzling smoke.

She’ll stare back at me, blankly, unimpressed.

She’ll follow me with boredom on her mind.

And won’t they die, she’ll think, to hear me tell

About his dingy sinks and busted couch

And walls? They’ll scream. And maybe so,

Or maybe she’ll forget the TV’s on,

Forget she hates the feeling of a rug,

And stretching wide with primal feline yawns,

She’d lie here, soft as cotton, on my chest,

And whisper, “You’re a jerk, you know that, Nick?”