carrying a ladder down 57th st.

looking for something to climb

and finding that every building tall

enough to be worth it has no good place up there

for sitting. I walk work want everywhere but the apartment

that no one lived in. No place to be but the next block.

How's the street from an avenue? With

three letters on your name instead of two? The

vertical challenges of both dimensions, I guess, despite

my best attempts and how sore this arm is,

and what's the tyranny of the straight line but

everything all of it absolutely.

Or the rest of night stretched out of my legs before

it ends up in tomorrow? Until I realize I was never

supposed to see him like this, it's a violation,

a foot-shot of a friendship, and now I've got

no business imagining what's in his backpack on the other

side of the catacomb, but I swear I was just walking. And,

really, how could you ever be outside with a haircut, so,

really, whose fault is it?

I woke up this morning proximate to gray and bitter like

it's supposed to taste, I'm told, which is no excuse

for acting this way but does explain Why

my shirt and pants can't seem to get along like they used to.

Yes, these specific ones, I don't mean in general.

What's a constitutional right without a belt?

Too late the alleys close up and tell me to go home.

I always felt that this was our street, but it's just yours

And you let me walk on it, or even climb up it if only the

Roofs would tilt down a bit.

Harrison Knight