Penurious Patron …
Midnights when birds take flight, inhales feel deep like,
When words bear breadth, sometimes I don’t sleep right,
beneath these house lights, I hold tight, when I’m dodging death
no regrets in this life fight, outside mid-winter frostbite
I walk the white ladder on the blacktop, in the street spots,
The color pops, chain link fence for the blank lots, a line
Down my block, food kitchens in full swing, the tea’s hot,
The poor folk, ribs poked, in their eyes, a goldmine.
Every day, that horn blows, at the most ruinous time,
chalk lines pop for crackpots, some poor girl lost her way
It’s 6 am on the wake, wipe the night face, and the red lines,
From bedtime outline the ways in the hours prayed.
One day at a time I should say, take the 7 train,
Midtown bound each day, suit and tie, a façade,
its bedtime for late-nighters, as the heavens wane,
around my panes, now center screen, the acts of God.
His protocols for those who can afford those hues,
But I find Him wearing, less flashy that’s all
Maybe a cloud or two for those poor folks who
Don’t have their walls or air conditioning installed.
I put my clothes on like everyone else does
grateful for sure, but conscious of where my star rose,
Though those people’s maladies are superfluous
Their origins are at least worthy of some pros.
The jungle knows when such words come to bear,
when the rot of failure permeates the stagnant air
and one dream collapsed in the inferno’s flare
is all it takes for reality to translate into despair.
I pass by the benches where life was removed,
And the mollusk unshelled consigned to its husk
With blankets tattered and clothing reused
the hope scarpers gone south on the wing gathered dusk
Are they lesser than us? You know they come from the same rocks,
The same rocks we stomp our feet on, the same way, on the same blocks,
Same clocks we keep in our heads, the same props, same spot,
At the end game, the king and the pawn, go into the same box*
Money is time and only God has the budget,
The plans to covet, to help such people from the dungeons
But they need to want it, to outrun the judgments
To stop being a puppet and break free from the clutches.
9 to 5 with their faces on the floor, the doors open
The world looking at them like an ocean flowing
All they’re interested in is smoking or doping
Overdosing in the moment, hopelessness like this poem
In the darkened hours, I’ve made more than just friends
In public houses on the mend, as patron pipes burn long
With songs of merriment, in melodies without end,
The world streamlines, in a simple moment where they belong.
Though harsh is reality, in the hungover hours,
Between the showers where tears fall and pool on the floor
Withdrawal is not hyperbole, but an evil power,
Where sadness trumps thought, and devils wait at the door.
For more works like this, and other great topics, by this author, see Paul Neglia Author Page.