-164.

[wait-oh-shi]

I was born for this.
I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead.

I even hear the mountains
the way they laugh
up and down their blue sides.
And down in the water
the fish cry.
And the water
is their tears.
I listen to the water
on nights I drink away
and the sadness becomes so great.
I hear it in my clock.
It becomes knobs upon my dresser.
It becomes paper on the floor.
It becomes a shoehorn.
A laundry ticket.
It becomes
cigarette smoke
climbing a chapel of dark vines.
It matters little.
Very little love is not so bad.
Or very little life.
What counts
is waiting on walls.
I was born for this.
I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead.