making a killing
I want to be rich so I don't have to
worry, so my cats will be fat
forever, so I can see fertile land
rolling away from my front and back doors
into the woods, and noone will ever bring
fear to me, that freezing fear of losing
everything into some unknown abyss and
falling endlessly with nothing and
noone and nowhere and no time and

endlessly walking the street, grey
houses turning to flat grey land stretching
away on either side and still
walking, shoulders forward, hands in
pockets holding thick unzipped jacket
closed against the wind, head down glancing
sideways, checking, squinting forward to
what? Walking. Walking. Looking

down the highway driving home thinking
how many hours did I work, how much
money did I make, calculating.

29 March 1995



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