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.
I like this one. Evocative.
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