Days Like These

On days like these,
when the sun hides in the clouds
and the rain falls
hour after hour,
the chaos of this city,
the traffic, the sirens, the trains,
all slip away
like smoke from a cigarette,
and all that is left
is the damp leaves under my feet
and the cool breeze flowing through
my finger tips.
On days like these,
I can be still and watch
the gutters
fill.



Fire

Out my window
the sky is bleeding ash.
The flames are turning our green hills
orange and red and, soon, black.
We escape in a long line down the road.
The firefighters sit on the sidewalk,
helpless.
The fire is too hot for them,
too fast for them.
“Will it burn the town?”
“I don’t know,” my mother says.
“Will it burn our house?”
“I don’t know,” my mother says.
The sky bleeds, and the hills burn.
I hope home will still be home
after the flames.



Making It

Nothing ever changes in this life.
There will always be old men
sitting on milk crates,
reading the newspaper
in the rain.
There will always be beautiful women
in high heels and dresses,
walking down the street
in the sun.
And there will always be you
trying to make it,
dirt and bugs under your feet,
with nothing to lose but yourself.