Poem of the Week

I, holding a lamp, was going down the stairs; I had

to discover who I was, what I accomplished in the past;

yet, the house was still standing although we had once

pushed the walls down to make room for the one who

was leaving;

crippled men played my fortune in a card game,

at the far end;Jesus of the drunks was passing each

night along the foggy street lamps and I followed

the killer wiping his footprints in the snow, since

by now I knew; the woman, when I tried to hug her 

made a light gesture and went into her door

leaving me outside.

    Oh Lord, please allow me to be dead and drunk         

    Only leave the stars which were friendly to me

even in the streets where they were shooting.