Poem Draft Wk 12

 Hunting for my Bird Dog

Brown clouds jump the rock city and winter leaves

ice resting or melting. Rutgers Church bells stop my drums
and quiets rumbling windows in pace of time:

I ride down the Ansonia laundry shoot like

a sullen lark in the cage or a lonely ghost

near the bath house. I grab some half-daisies

from the vacant Korean grocery, with isles of Alpo

that the cat lady buys for her puppy, I hope.

Near the Subway, bubble wrap snaps on the pavement,

while, I notice the smell of wet brownstone mixing

with my bamboo stick. I open it for a dry walk.

Floating under the stick, hunting for brighter days.

I enter the corner of Strawberry Fields. The lonely Met,

stays lonely for another day. I will leave cloisters, stranded-

hipsters, hustlers and ball players and head instead

to a memorial of weeds and incense on spayed

plastic flowers.

I hear a car horn, or music, or barking. It is hard to tell,
when gum covers the sound of every bald cypress tree.

I enter the empty field of Frisbees on a far too chilly day

and flock towards one behind bones. Suddenly, the sunlamp

turns on, and my synthetic bamboo slide closes to reveal, real men 
in gloves moving a Japanese Dogwood.

Meanwhile, back at studio B, a hot carmel coffee sits in my lap.

and my filthy hands cup it. Skynyrd plays on the 8-track, as worthless
treasures lie at my feet. The city was covered in plastic, but I am still looking
for my bird dog, back home in Alabama.