My Idea
An idea is like waking
He told me
He told me this
While the sleepy smoke
Of his cigarette coiled itself
There is so much damn thinking
So must waste
Have you sifted through the heap
Of your thoughts?
The refuse of its compulsive themes?
There! He points
There is significance!
The blue bum shuffles in his untied boots
Across Ashland Avenue
There is no hurry
Because there is nowhere to go
Mickey is cracked
Like a motherless egg
This is my idea, I suppose it is a rancid thing
He shoos the flies, nods,
And swallows it whole