Today's poem is by Andrew Kozma
Assault on Precinct 13
Please come in, this town is closed. Roadblocks cinch the arteries,
cars forget their meaning. The motionless Buick is a house
abandoned. The empty houses are the offices
of the priests and the dead. Where are all the people? Open up
the steeple. Who needs the church when hands are gods, each one
stricken with palsy, arthritic knots, muscular memories
of how easy it was to pull a trigger or strangle open a jar?
The police are absent. The criminals are ghosts. We remember
the phone book and the phone booth and the phone
as comforting as a breast without its body. We hold ourselves
up against the concrete wall. We fit inside the stains
of those who came before. This is not a city of the dead
but of the dying. Beautiful doctor, architect of the body,
demand your fee in advance, these coins that were our eyes,
these sewer lids, open now, rendering our bodies into the sky.
Copyright © 2011 Andrew Kozma All rights reserved
from Cave Wall
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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