in front of the window
One by one are putting on faces of sullied green.
It is this time of year.
Cheers and laughs vanished but the pavements are heavy
With the litter of last night’s carelessness.
In the hospital behind the trees sheets are changed
And the bed patiently awaits its next kill.
The truth, the most difficult reality of all,
Coming too late – can it still mend anything?
Unable to sleep, a naked man gets out of empty bed
To wake a medicine man. Do you know him?
He asks for a healing powder, for a golden shot
Into a universe of a new existence. He shuts his eyes
Only to make him see her all the more clearly.
Unable to sleep, a woman searches the corners of her bed
For the warmness of the body she cannot forget
But finds only beatings of the clock on the wall.
The morning seems never to come. Every love song hurts.
Do I know her? She wants the streets to be stripped of the past.
She wants the restaurant they used to eat in
To bankrupt and fold. She needs
A brand new architect to rebuilt the whole city.
All colours must be re-invented. She does not care
Which god will do it.
The air turns into suffocating gas. It is this time of year.
They teeter into their kitchens and push themselves to eat.
Three reckless squirrels run up and down a tree trunk,
Detect a face frozen in the window, pause to look, scatter.
The medicine man is short of powders.
The city would not change.