By Justin L. Blessinger
In a bath of monitors
Light swamps, swaddles his quick work
Finished in the blurry low-light of after eleven.
He slaps the humming box, quieting its buzz
of resistors and upgrades, their competition quiet now,
pulls his jacket –coyote statant guardant on a field vermillion –
over his collared shirt, the streetlights blur
black street flows beneath his feet,
swamplike and glossy.
Home is a tangle of unwashed sheets,
Biting his nails to the quick, watching downloaded anime
Until he slumbers in
Clingy, welcome unconsciousness on the couch,
His pillows like low hanging fruit
Doesn’t know how he came to live in the unctuous city
Slicker than the locals, less so than the left coast transplants.
His roots are west river,
An eccentric amalgam of yokel and wonk,
A flair for dramatic coffees, yet he still catalogues noxious weeds
And criticizes poorly built fences.
His youth is subterranean, underground in
53E in a clench of apartments, not far off Kiwanis.
Yet no cocks will crow, and he’ll still grind a meticulous bean,
Thrill his loins by sliding between two
Cars in the brutal traffic that lasts just 25 minutes,
And slap the humming box,
the monitor watches him breathe.
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