Collins Avenue, 3 a.m.

It's not a fog accidental
that glories round his feet
when he walks Collins Avenue
to the freeway overpass, dead
of night, impossible to see
without calling for the light
to come back and find this
man alone with just coyotes
aprowl for housecats, bunnies
and rats. Let us see him
for his gun sense of purpose,
his unfriendly way with time,
the kind of pyramid he'd build
if all the enslaved fell in line.
He hears one young woman
yell, shredded office docs
in her throat, holding 'love'
for one last shot, "Ain't
ever been a man like that!"
But it just makes hordes
of zombie lovers moan angry
at the sickly lack of faith,
wrecked in happy graves
on restless cemetery nights,
"Yes, yes, yes indeed, yes!"
Eternity--unsettled, sure--
clicks on the luck of who
one prays so hard to meet.

Work grinds up daylight hours
in pepper mill fashion until evening
finally falls in slow black specks.
He knows what everyone will say
next, the big blouse of being human
all pinned up shrunk shirt tight,
mannerisms reigned in chain mail
style--clank walk of rusted knights.
His quiet they take for other life
outside the office, as if he saves
himself for something big, big,
big as...flight? No one can dream
about each other more than half
hopes the worst won't happen yet.
"April is the coolest month,"
he kicks the meeting off, a test,
but no eyes alight, conversation
a meal of yesterday's leftovers.
He pictures everyone naked,
dancing out their own desires,
exuberant children of old sin,
and wonders about exodus
from here to all out there,
the way magicians free doves
from bright black Asian boxes
with sudden lifts of fingers.
While the rest of them sleep,
he'll walk tonight as if puzzles
unlocked with tired footsteps.