dangling from his anguish
an ever present feeling
out here on this graveyard shift
sensing that a break won't come
shrugging off this stinging sense
he'll not live to see one
trying not to focus on
a laundry list of disappearing things
throughout his neighborhood
this might be the least inviting
orb in all the galaxy
like a shimmering bumblebee
his craft appears
defiantly ascendant
reaching worlds beyond the spheres
his ineluctable soulful ring
thus far has not registered
on academic radar
Neruda, Bangs, Dickinson and Geisel
#47: on a san francisco hill
