In the rain one can sense the impending arrival of bad fortune
the darkness under the stairways!
Boys sobbing in armies!
Old men weeping in the goldhorn shadow of dungarees
and the blast of colossal steam whistles,
watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out the Time,
& now Denver is lonesome
for her heroes, who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals
praying who crashed through their minds in jail waiting
for impossible criminals with golden fortunes
It is in their lot we are cast.
***Done in the Borough’s cut-up style