The light is a dusty dying ray
thru the beat up shade.
The heap of dishes for work at the Chinese joint done
and the dirty shirt with the dish scum on it's in the laundry basket.
The yellow monte carlos of st. louis
I take a cool pull of bourbon
in a yellowed glass
and blur the lines between fact and fiction
in the coolest spring fragrance
adjacent to north St. Louis's big occasional rubble heaps.