A poem.

it’s 2006,
right after my surgery
lest anyone ever lets me forget;
poor me, poor me, poor me…

i’m staying in a RMCH-like for
horny seniors & teenagers alike,
and right outside my bedroom window
is a double-wide trashcan transients treat like an idol –
big enough to catch a flying fugitive Keanu:

i’m up late at night writing over the phone with a friend
whilst friends of the garbagepeople do their job for them.
bio-waste probably didn’t go in there –
one hopes –
but i can’t imagine it was loaded with lacquerware
when 90% of the co-tenants were lucky enough
to be off of the street themselves –
with library access to a fax machine to sign up for MSP –
to die affordably
and at their own pace within the year.
at least i could say that my mother was there.

now it is the hard, cold future
of 2023:
there is no free parking on the street
of the residential body
where my wife & i look after a furry family familiar
for two weeks.