I looked around and saw all the
Windows and trees and hairdos
Brick, recemented, old, different
Heights and browns and entrances,
Rusty bikes; the Mediterranean grocery
The organic butcher, Turkish Barbers,
reaching corners, drinking tea in hourglasses
In front—and knew
That all of it would not reach the other end
of this poem.
The cold stairs were mine, the days,
the years, the cats on the window sills.
It didn’t matter.
Tom Waits was no Radio DJ in this world either.
So what the hell.