Black iron stood in the sky
holding up the trains as they roared overhead,
momentarily disrupting the rotation of the earth,
mother was there in the kitchen
near the turquoise plastic table,
she so meaningfully adored.
Out on the fire escapes on gray mornings, we dangled,
below, earthmen went berserk,
rock n' roll dawned over us,
and the world gave birth to the portable radio.
We roamed the streets for matches,
like tireless matadors,
days came and went like snakes,
the plaster cracked,
there were no moorings,
only idle escapades of laughter.
We vowed to make our escape.
I returned to find that the boy had died,
killed by circumstance,
never again to see his father
scorn the air outside his window,
never again to feel that steel-gray madness.
I buried the boy
beneath the glass and rubble,
i left the a stone for him to lie under,
i longed to know him better,
but could not afford to linger.