witching hour — brendan joyce
I’m alone with the night again thinking
every union, every right: ghosts of a
failed general strike. The smoke laughs out
of me against the night every union, every right:
ghosts of a failed general strike.
My father taught me how to play poker
next to the Murphy bed. After every deal:
“the pot is right.” Every billionaire, every cop:
ghosts of a failed general strike.
In his metallic mauve Altima the Black &
Mild’s cut sharpie-sized holes in the
tan leather interior. Every cigarette,
every night: ghosts of a failed
general strike. Back on Peony the
bikers across the street would get
coked out & then start shooting.
They ripped that building out probably
ten years ago. Every tear down,
every tavern: ghosts
of your safe & happy life
haunting mine.
The stars the moon the sky
ghosts of a failed general strike
The rain the wind the cold
ghosts of a failed general strike
Cars highways single family homes
ghosts of a failed general strike
downtown the neighborhood & what is left
ghosts of a failed general strike
my body my life
ghosts of failed general strike
who survives & why
Ghosts of a failed general strike
_______________________
Brendan Joyce is is and is