After Hours

These ghosts are not the dead,
They are the sounds of that day’s living,
Who crowd these halls. But they left
Hours ago ——

They’ve left a sort of residue
Of loneliness, and violence,
And heartaches, dizzy-spun, like
Vertigo

There’s terror in this emptiness,
As voices, loud in chaos,
Fill up my ears, and make
My insides shake —

The after hours, madness wrung
Out of despair and Pine-sol,
And bodies torn by more than hearts
Can take

On An Old Abandoned Hospital

“I’s” unknown,
So many “they’s”,
From untold places,
Bygone days,
In rooms for healing,
Pass away:
We know this.
But we just

With our contumely
Carry on,
We’re here —-
What matters who is gone?
We think
It isn’t real, beyond,
A faint remaining
Crust

An echo, an
Enablement,
A bill of life
That’s elsewhere spent;
We needn’t hear
What there was meant,
Nor sit down to
Discuss

The primitives
Who came before,
Who lay in here,
Or built this door,
Whose tears and blood
Call from the floor,
“All dust is made
  Of us —“

Snapshot: A Woman on the Bus

The days are hard,
She’s tired, and
Frustrated;
A better life —
For so long, now,
She’s waited —

She’s more and more
An animal
Who’s sessile —
She’s sui generis
But not
That special —

The scenery
Goes by, and she’s
Reflecting —
Another day
Of talk without
Connecting —

A worker’s job –
A crier’s tears –
Authentic —
So much alike
That sometimes they’re
Identic

Slipped Away

The world, for him, has slipped away.
He sold it for some bits of string:
It hasn’t hit him – not today –
That he’s devoid of everything

That gave his life some meaning, and
Could build a house of more than sand;
Instead, he chases his ideal
And gives up all he has
That’s real