Monday, November 19, 2018

a privilege to weep

It is a privilege to cry for something.

Last night, perhaps two stories up
Along the soot-blacked beams of the el,
A single blue-white square,
Perfect to the point of weeping,
Injected itself, as yet unbruised
By next-guy's signatures:
"405" had not yet taken an over-writing turn --
An abstemious purity ... it was to weep.
With joy.

Later, the TV news happened to display
The self-same blue-white square
Serendipitously ... still untouched, still
Wrackingly perfect and again it was
To weep
With sorrow.

Perhaps I just like to weep
Or am riddled by my privileges.


Just a little morning fiction. Made of whole cloth.

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