Monday Morning

In the hard-edged town

the form that the light takes is like a trickle down.

Some things it will filter out

to soften the faces of the angry men who still walk around,

who will walk around in the harvest night

of a suitcase town.

I fear the pace of change.

I fear the face of change.

I fear the pace of change.

Something in the air tastes of strange enough.

Everybody must go.

Everybody must swear an oath to leave.

I heard it on the radio.

(That's how I know.)