in his world of crack, grey inside
the color of broken microphones-
everything has to be
shouted out and thinned to a
empty? empty? sort of stuck
and pushed to the rear.
he's just now getting started,
and the muscled arms of
four friends will join in brevity
beneath the bridge
his father built-
disarmed and tossed into the mud.
he stands there
with his poetry looking down,
while the others are noiseless rubber
stretched over false egos.
it is these four men
and all their missiles pointed upward
that makes this place so trying.
by Mick Tomlinson