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singing my funeral dirge softly under gray skies
close enough to true
i can not see the pot-holed Boston street
from my fifth floor window
through the cool wet gray outside
but the sound of puddles
muddling up to the sidewalk
with a shhhhh from the whitewalls
of passing automobiles
wears me down like a happy little skin cancer
or the well lubricated cough of a hemorrhagic fever
there is motion out there
while I sit here
still
wondering about the distance
to another life
from my fifth floor window
through the cool wet gray outside
but the sound of puddles
muddling up to the sidewalk
with a shhhhh from the whitewalls
of passing automobiles
wears me down like a happy little skin cancer
or the well lubricated cough of a hemorrhagic fever
there is motion out there
while I sit here
still
wondering about the distance
to another life
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