Like Windmills

0

Schizoid feminine black men,
poor and in girls’ jeans,
arms waving like windmills

1

There was only one man
dusting the abandoned trail.
I followed behind, though

I watched his two middle
fingers faced-forward, toward
me, before he prayed upwards,

all in dense confusion on the
late-night train hour, a ride
home filled with all tired manner.

2

Following footsteps cold, narrow;
no snow over these grated vents,
metal heating pads of the street.

Hips up ahead still sway the absurd
dance, black clothes complimentary,
duskdown for us, the feared villains.

3

Verlaine truly sends the best attack,
those champion letters like swords,
swooping through, gutterpunch.

Text sent in, toward the night
satellites–they have no idea
just how frozen Philadelphia is.

4

Gone, blasted, gone, and
the headache hasn’t shrank,
nor have these distinct meltings.