Australians come in hoards with fishing poles on their backs.
One trouble with matted motion, the engulfing stench of saliva
& yellowed butts. With a brick between the frame & door
the German filmmaker goes out for a smoke.
I had joined him. He & his crew were on the attack
of the financial crisis; a subject that bores
me greatly. Seldom I am as strong as my tongue.
Often do both my lips conspire to make young.
Although silence is lean here on Bank St.,
you will not get robbed,
but on the wretched weekends when 27 is open
you may just get mobbed
by the collegiate flash, crumbling out of the cheese bus
from the foreign West of Broad.
Bringing terrible & bright scenes, once a western theme.
I walk swiftly inside (I believe I’ve moved on from Henri)
lower the volume of the TV, & read in a hush
my funny bearded man & his Dreams.
