Forget prosperity and let them break
my teeth on gravel stones, remove my soul
from peace and peaceful places. Let them take
my strength and hope and leave me with my gall.
I am a poet and if I do not
lament I can’t rejoice. My god! My god!
I’ll tell you of a secret, holy spot
where everything I write is sanctified.
Take 36th to Park and find the crack
that stretches from the sidewalk to the curb.
You’ll find a wooden bench that’s painted black
to hide the scars and stains which might disturb
the souls who wait impatiently, not us
who know that there will be another bus.