the trash blows
happily
on the cold wind
swirling
in the causeway
as the fool
squints up angrily
at the bright gray sky
hoping for
a stray sunbeam
to illuminate
the shadows
across his brain

he is learning
to cut the things
that serve
no purpose
out of his mind
with the surgical
precision of
a drunken lumberjack
with early onset
parkinson’s

the birds sing
as the fool
sips
coffee gone cold
in the
whirlwind of
cigarette butts
dessicated leaves
and softly spoken hopes
sent out
in the earnest wish
his love
reaches her
carried by the
gusts of wind
trapped inside
plastic bags
suspended
on the currents
of differential ache

it isn’t easy scraping barnacles off of your brain, especially when it’s so much easier to drown

because you simply refuse

to try and swim