Tommy

The Sound comes in
as I run to escape
the salty sin
of this counterfeit state

The real-world wakes
to a warm neon glow
in doorways, on paving stones,
and in faux alley chateaus

They congregate, cooperate,
and pick through the abandoned estate
saying “Tommy
don’t need them no more”

Papers, dirty clothes, containers
once held important things
given over to underlings
or valued to sell

The sum of a life
blows down the street
chased, picked up
disposed indiscrete

Never to be seen again
like random clutter
as we make way
for another.