Easy Tiger

The spoons lie half forgotten in cans of corn
Slips of pink paper slid under the door just diplomas of this domain
Though the cold never seeps through the nest of blankets in the corner
Bowie-Knife carvings on a wooden cable spool—the table
Where it stabs through a nihilistic manifesto—evolved
From thirty-nine years of too many funerals and too little love

But what can sere boy’s-homes breed
When the bills break to pennies still singed in grime
the machine looses count—
And Identity dies

Seeds and stems from yesterday’s pot
litter cigarette burns on a stolen plane blanket—
stuffed in the cushions of a futon that cant afford sleep
except tempests tossing in early light
he says an artist must live his religion
so the knife cuts what cannot break
with so dull a blade and broken handle

easy tiger, this Sun will set
when politicians loose there sordid gamble
and in the fall land on your couch