The whole kit and kabuddle

by Ben John Smith

Some times Indian cab drivers
Tell sad stories
In the same vein
as a gambler
carrying a cat
or a slum dog
Vietnamese kid
Being carried on my
shoulders.

or
A drunk at the
Bottom
Of the stairs.

i realize that

We all lay awash;
Looking for agoodness
That hides in eyelids
We can hardly hold open

and
Im not even
afraid of this.

I almost welcome it.

I say to her;

Lets sing songs
But she is asleep,

So I sing them to
Myself
And i get truly sad

That my voice
Will never be
As pretty as
Hers.

and the moans
in her sleep are
like ghosts
in this
dark and
piss smelling
room.