I Don't Go

People inside buying coffee
Two breakfast sandwiches.

In an alley or park, where
The cops don't go, fighting

Each other. No one watches.
Drugs under the snow,

Curled up low into the gutter
Against the howling wind and cold.

Cyclists moving by to fast and
All at once, heads bent low.

And with faces covered in
satin black Neoprene.

In the Tall Grass

Push a tree down
I hear, in your voice

A terrible sound and
It abounds.

Running on the track
Along the ground

Your sheeting rain
Makes a little

Slot-car sound.
I've been here

Sitting around the house
And you've been this.

All this space
Around is plain

All these victims'
woody sounds.