words swept like blood
from the factory floor
where my grandfather danced
barely more than a boy
today his younger brother dead
what we build here
out of bones
here where the line gets longer
where the whistle doesn’t blow
where poems don’t touch our fingers
or our hearts
most days
songs form like obituaries
for the birdsong
of pittsburgh memories
& warm missouri mornings
where i wait
for another cup of coffee
where the wind plays cat & mouse
with each borrowed breath
& the treetops hardly ever remember
to say goodbye
while oats finish cooking in an empty pan
& i dream it’s all a game
where i wait
for my turn at silence.