Port of Morrow

Through the rain

and all the clatter,

under the Freemont bridge,

I saw a pigeon fly,

fly in fear

from a raptor

come to take its life.

And as it closed,

In for the capture,

Funnelled the fear through my ancient eyes,

Se in flight what I know are the bitter mechanics of life.

Under my hat,

it reads

the lines are all imagined.

A fact of life

I know

to hide from my little girls.

I know my place amongst

the bugs and all the animals.

And it’s from these ordinary people

you were longing to be free.

In my hotel,

and on the TV,

a preacher on the stage

like a buzzard cries

out a warning,

Of phony sorrow.

He’s trying to get a rise.

Cyanide, from an almond,

Let him look at your hands,

get the angles right.

Ace of spades,

Port of Morrow,

life is death

is life.

I saw a photograph

of Cologne in ’27,

and then a postcard after the bombs in ’45.

Must have been a world of evil clowns

that let it happen.

But now I recognize,

dear listeners,

that you were there

and so was I.

Under my hat, I know

the lines are all imagined,

A fact of life I must impress on my little girls

I know my place amongst

the creatures

in the pageant.

And there are flowers

in the garbage,

and a skull

under your curls.