now
sitting on cement steps,
cold ass and feet,
I sip bad coffee
smoke home-rolled cigarettes
and smile
with a straight face
everything is as it is
the trees stand as trees,
not stone-crackled pillars.
slight wind moves the leaves,
but it's not music.
the houses are houses, not modest castles
holding everyday king and queens,
not passageways to the unknown
and unseen.
I breath the air
feel it fill my lungs
and vacate them leisurely.
I feel blood pump
through my thighs.
I don't think of memories
or plans—I have neither.
I don't consider emptiness
or satiation—I couldn't.
they have no meaning just now.
there is no sadness this morning,
there is no love,
there's hardly a morning at all.
I take another drag
another sip
I sit
Everett Baker is a dead beat traveling around the country with no plans. He takes solace in a general lack of success by thinking himself a poet.
