2 December 2004 | Vol. 4, No. 4
This pack of pot-bellied songbirds squats
at gutter's edge all night, passing butts
of Lucky Strikes and belting the blues.
My window's stuck up and I'm laid low.
Podgy wrentit in Wayfarers and tweed,
You bust a mean harp, daddy-o.
I'm lachrymose and shivery. Shattery. Torn
up. Curled in a fetal fit, smelling my knees,