Szender

Szender

There's a choreography to the collages of light
that cast vermillion red and prussian blue upon your face,
they fall soft, unlike the man, rendered an enemy
by time and booze on a street beyond,
weaving between real estate,
mosaics of cars and bordered up shops.

I wonder if his Mother knows, if she makes a wish,
puts on a brew, requests a text
when he finally gets home or if
he has nowhere else to go
and will sleep snoring on the turn of grass
by the park, shifting under a confused summer

to damp and crisp brown -
and if, when found in the morning,
more slug than human man,
there'll still be vomit on his sweater,
walkers recoiling rather than aiding
upon sight.

but I digress
because that isn't you,
you - reading in a crown in the downs
of an industrial bar
called a Bulletproof,
energy of the fireside,

you, warmly held,
one community found,
setting a tone for a crowd,
courageously opening a room where others
will be safe to speak,
to exhale,
 
you break open the book,
bind the night, curl it over
on your tongue with years of wisdom
dropped like tarot cards, or seals back to sea,
knowing nothing is out to get you
but plain love and strange, complimentary light.