I walk up Telegraph Avenue in
the fresh piss morning the stiff
homeless chiseling away at last
night’s condensation in their
lungs their dogs stretching
on the corner I hear the beard
wearing stone like cardboard
colored grampa change his mantra
‘good morning’ to ‘morning ladies’
in front of his money cup
the clock in the tower erases at
the air unconquered clouds
unimpressed with its organization
wind up like a cold scrotum against the hills
and the ladies were eighteen
Ryan McGivern
