A day tips the scales,
is the fat baby in the hand of the doctor
who says to the pressed white sheet mother
"The little one is certainly big
for his age, now is he not?"
when pockets are empty and those long stares
are gone and its as if the mirror
has been shattered to leave a beautiful
scattered scene across waning
numbers on the calendar, clock,
Yet off in the world,
some pin point dot
far from the torn flesh
and blood tipped glass
a young man laughs with his hands
raised in the naked, liberated air.
His days are the sum of only
a present push in the brain,
some sudden sense or passion that pushes
one along from one memory to the next ,
to a pleasant forgetfulness.
When the lights turn off
(closing time is coming soon,
and the crowd has gone home
(they must have homes,
surely they must!)
when the bottles are dry
(the mouths are vacuums,
heated slimy vacuums!)
he will know this
better than before;
but no need to tap him on the shoulder
as he stands on his stool.
No need to let him fall while
he stands so tall and glorious,
for it is a sight to see
even while on the
glass covered pavement.