I am hungry for your touch,
peace on leathered skin,
tomorrow left on the horizon.
The daylight work of damning consistent
sits on my alarm clock rattling its chain
to keep me working at dying empty.
Memory is the euphoric touch of blue sky
in the vomit covered gravity I find on 5th street
where a bus stop is my second home.
If cigarettes could touch the soul, I’d be
the shaman of nicotine, but I am an
emphysemic hustler bartering with death.
I miss the kindness of open windows dripping smiles
as I passed beneath them; the sound of giggles
playing music with taxi horns; yesterdays that weren’t digital.
Oh, hell, maybe my soul still knows the way to Shambhala.
I’ve been so busy drinking hard times I’ve starved hope.
There just might be enough blue sky above concrete to show me the way.
©Susie Clevenger 2016
For some reason when I was writing this I felt like I was channeling a man. My muse likes to mess with my head. :)