John Courtney

(05-22-1982 / Philadelphia)

Casino Traffic


it is morning
and there are stars,
I lay on my back
inventing my future
from memory, perhaps
some clocks will
return my eyes,
same way the river
washed rocks
leaving them
dirtier,

so much depends
on traffic, the dead love
of a morning cab
with lousy AM radio
fog, so much depends
on the war today,
getting this lazy bag
of luck in line,
a crumbling of flesh
rolling ever on
to fill trash
cans with
trampled
fire,

the ground unlike
a boy is allowed
to sleep, weather
slowly over and over
the streets, night
hiding with its
bottle screams
belligerent
brown glass
empty,

a car drove
over me,

not today
but in the past,

my first memory
is of death, such as
dandelions growing
or roses placed
under the sun
of clocks.

Submitted: Tuesday, May 07, 2013
Edited: Wednesday, May 08, 2013
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