2016-01-11

Slog
—a poem by Wayne F. Burke

Dried skin
on my scalp;
I rub different creams on
but none help--
48 hours of sunshine would cure
me
but there is no sun,
no moon either,
no stars;
a gray plenitude of
fog,
impenetrable sky of
sludge
dull as years spent in
cribs of
babyhood;
dirty as the dish rag
grandma used to wipe
the sink with;
northeast-gray the pigeons
fly through:
swilled soup-of-the-day
with glops of charcoal,
lead...I rub some on my
head and
it feels good
in a kind of strange,
and maybe sick,
way.


___

Wayne F. Burke's latest book of poetry DICKHEAD is available from Bareback Press and at amazon.com.

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