Where tying my shoelaces is the loneliest act.

Where desire is a dead cat.

Where I live as close to the sidewalk as the pigeons
and the sidewalk remembers me
and its alcoves collect me like a bride.
. . .























. . .
Where my name is power
and cries out to my brothers, the commuters,

for they cringe
for fear the charge
arced by a coin would strike them down

for grown men are forced to the other side of the street
and beautiful women avert their eyes.
. . .























. . .
If I knew
what was required.
If I had the right not to suffer.

Where I am free.

For I am not afraid to find myself
dead in the morning.