"Pan Gar Jam" (New poem, 2021/11/03)

There is always a friendly hand waiting outside
of Pan Gar
a taxi sometimes
or a phone call
after the jam, 9 AM, I'm ready to go home

I cross the gas lamp streets like a wolf
ready for harvest
lambs are curious in the morning
where did I go wrong
my face says it all to the passengers of the first bus home
the last bus in this district

as soon as the FedEx trucks are gone
and couriers by chance
resign
this is heaven

shiny black flies
circle around my guitar case
shiny black as well
tight as her pussy in the mild British afternoon
but this is Poland
eons forth from the British experience

the still glow of the cities
I'm piping my way out of them
two ears of lore that straighten the Egypt in my brain
and her God is never
present
although this heaven could exist in ages
trapped in synth lines
babbling
incoherent poetry
for the city

she lights up the day like a cigarette
we walk by with the meat
we bought
soft and current ikebana
sure of our
all night conquest

yet all the lambs are deaf
and tape-ruled
their heads
dwindling
and zone birds
cawing
still in the shadow of their tombstones