Graffiti
Published in
Sep 23, 2022
Part 9 of the Moon Series
The idiots are out again
They’ve painted all the windows
It must be the end of the week,
approaching winter,
spray can goons
are on the loose,
scrawling their insipid goop.
Standing on my roof,
a dry, clear night,
harvest moon
lying low, making time
ride or die, fly or cry,
dusty tumbleweed,
tumbling crime.
Crowds comfort me
solitary, untouched
in a heaving mass, apart,
sodden blanket noise,
earphones play an air,
pipes, fiddle, bouzouki strain,
lamenting something lost or gone.
