Every night weíre subjected to
the cardboard sound of the helicopters
roughly slapping the air
the dangerous citizenry
looking hard for criminals or just weak lost persons
unable to see or adequately get around.
You may try and space oneís eyes up
through between the buzz of wires on poles
the yesterday hurt and marred appearance of the buildings
built in a way for somebody else, the passed away once cars.
I cannot turns out always secure sleep rest at night
the sky glowing the unpleasant warm purple gray here
the color of discarded menís suits
left out in the wash too long, the sun.
The helicopter grinding beater mulling hums
at night, not the splendorous evenings Iíd
thought of or wished for, thereís
in these shanty, shack, days, dark ends, no you
to explain to me how
itíll all be all right