Gutterhome

The shortage will be divided among the peasants. –Proverb

I am the glory that drips from bitter mouths,
smokes butts from the street,
kills strays.
Rain pounds my flat and painted surface,
engenders sporadic stubble,
drifts grime.
Insolent hymns resonate through my waste lands,
ciphered with screeching hosannahs,
silent cursing.

Emblazoned with a dead man’s name,
I am steaming black sympathy,
cold change.

Behind a lifetime crust of processed cheese,
between stains in faded floral print,
humming seafoam,
worn fur seeps years of sordid stench,
exposes overflowing flesh,
sprouts scarcity.

This runner is cut down foot and knee,
bleeds white and octagon red,
absorbs lead,
and lies motionless in a rotten orange glow,
exhaling centuries of gutterhome
into the endless night.