THE SHEPHERD'S FOLD

Long into passing come the people of the dark
to the Shepherd's Fold near Jackson Park
where for six shiny bits we elude the night
in a bryophitic cellar of forty-watt light.

Trust in God, keep your hand on the rope,
don't lose the towel or the carbolic soap,
drinking not allowed says the sign on the door
and broken wine bottles snap at feet on the floor.

Eight double bunks line the lichened tomb
and sixteen plots circumambulate the room
and we all hug our shoes and give warning
that we'll not lacerate our soles in the morning.

Fighting sleep and struggling against death
we make loud noises with exaggerated breath
aware that even when belief is in retreat
without any footwear we'd perish in the street.

We all carry two-by-fours just in case
but our minds take journeys into inner space
for the night is overpowering and we trauma
into period, apostrophe and comma.

The litotes rode on the back of a dot
into the metaphor of an irony pot
where it was safe from impingement verbally
of metonymy, meiosis, understatement or hyperbole
because the pinge, unlike malaria,
was not indigenous to the area.

We wake in the morning and the gatherers have flown
with shoes and two-by-fours and bits we used to own
so we shuffle into daylight and apostolic hope
with our twelve-hour futures and our carbolic soap.

REACH ME DOWN THE MOON

Bottled beer reflects the light
of moons upon the arborite
and empty bowls of barley broth
leave rings upon the table cloth.
The dishes vanish one by one,
the phonograph plays Mendelssohn
while in the kitchen, out of time,
the kettle sings Sweet Adeline.

Evening is the morning of the night
and outside, where slain leaves gather
along the low-tide curbs
among the butts and animal debris,
mustered groups in loops of lunacy
are exchanging sandwiches of cheese
for paper cups of vinegar and peas
or trading radishes and red wax lips
for liquorice pipes and bags of chips.

A cadaver drives a Cadillac hearse,
a man in high-heels has a dog in his purse,
the sheep's in the meadow,
the cow's in the corn,
the gillygaloo lays an egg on the lawn.

When madness permeates the soul,
when elbows argue self-control,
when the dish runs away with the runcible spoon,
it's time to reach me down the moon.

HOME IS THE SAILOR

When I couldn't sleep on the weeping grass
or the floor of a stone-cold tomb
or a flat-iron bench in the ghostly park
or a deck chair left in the asphalt dark,
I'd ring the local whore house bell
and scrounge me a kip if all went well
and if there were an empty room.