of the suit&tie; the backbone of maternal inklings
as a briefcase sits upon the subway
riding. remember deprecation—humbling away from
our names in lights; our faces on glossy pages
where we're idolized like rock stars. we can never
be rock stars because we have no fame
but only indicatives inside our souls;
we are the blues: lo-fi popping with just us
and a dobro at our hip—a lust a love a god
a fuck a tear a life at our hip.
why lock your office when you can open up your being
and let it all fly over the streets?
don't drive away; real poets walk.