my poetry couldn't keep up with my soul
and my ideas lost my mind in a corner store
(though the boy taking stock had a note-
pad and could have given them directions
had they thought to ask) but my soul refused

their goods
and so my poetry stopped a note short
of their store which my mind found on the corner
as my poetry screamed for my mind to be round
and the streets were
made of grids and note pad squares
ashy compartments the store divided its stores

and
the boy took notes (and wrote them on the
street) so my mind stored ideas and my soul
saw a boy in the corner of the streets with a store
on it and with stores inside

on a pad gridlocking up
all roads for the season opener my mind
cried my soul was curious and my family was
a boy with no pen in the store

and soul stuck in
ideas over mind with poetry and me being
a different story i could not keep up so i ran
down the street and slipped on the words
of the boy from the store

padded and grid(-locked) down, down,
down the street
in passing, the stores, soft, soft,
soft into commitment and air
pressure, into the arms
that waited for death behind the streets and corner
stores

and my poetry came
running after