A Tiger's Pause
I have been there from a distance,
quick eye flashes between billboards;
such height creates a cup of grass
from three stories, four.
I have sunk into my television,
during ant-wars, grey and white,
amidst the taunting patterned green.
But I am always too late.
I was not born when artful dodgers
poked their fingers through a borough's psyche,
questing for the missed of Avalon.
I did not wake to find the only bums
destitute in dank doorways,
as the young men go west,
I never knew my eyes were lonely,
never knew that fifty-six could buy the promise
sixty-one has since sold.
And when Joe was truly gone
I heard Simon sing again,
and knew he was no longer lying.
John Doe speaks my dreams, there,
in another man's house, another place I've never been.
It is iron he who rusts away,
into Stephen Hawking glimpses
And I will rust, too, as I drive
and hear no announcer's voice
pretend to hide the horsehide's startling whump,
or the screaming scatter before
the parliament of fouls.