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by David Hill

With expanding heat creaks
and leaky furnace puddles,
all the bums are snug bugs
inside the moldy library.
Yellow Hair does a crossword
beneath his golden halo.
Rag Man sleeps and saws
openmouthed on his cloud
with a prop book,
saliva strung like harp strings.
I drop “Wings of Desire”
on the cluttered counter,
ogle curvaceous Miss Mavis
and her severest of buns!

On positively 5th street
me, the hipster doofus
slip sliding the sidewalk
on rubber soul and
checkered sneaks.
I’m absolutely fabulous
in the shadow of my angel,
imagined, and watching
from atop the rusty water tower
with her wild wag oculist eyes.

A black fan descends,
casts a slow glide shadow
then clumsy stumble lands
upon the lamppost.
The crow dips his head,
pushes out in a rising arc,
splits the black beak, and
caw, caw, caw
down the ghostly block,
his song, ugly, like a belch.

Not to be outdone,
I dip my head,
push out in a rising arc,
split my ruby beak, and
“It’s me, myself, and nobody else
says Barnacle Bill the sailor…”

up the ghostly block,
my song, ugly, like a belch.

From a park bench
I peel green gloss paint
in satisfying flakes, and
conjure the angel smile
of a crooked toothed girl with
coke bottle glasses and leg braces.

Here, inside a lazy afternoon,
I defy my propensity
toward melancholy,
to explode smack dab center
in these perfect moments,
like an angel with a song.


Author's Note: Im operating under the grandest of delusions!

Posted on 03/16/2006
Copyright © 2023 David Hill

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Darren Swift on 03/16/06 at 11:53 PM

And the grandest of delusions leads to the grandest of works - severely impressed with this gem from line one to the last. Peace - Jimmy

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