A soft breeze blows by an
old sales receipt. Coupons
on the back and complicated
jabber on the front, I’d wager.

It pulls the whole place into
perspective: Seedy men and
women wandering just behind
the seedless building fronts,
through back-alleys no-one
remembers and sharp turns
no-one takes for fear of
drowning.

I won’t pick up that sales
receipt, or walk through
any alleys, though. I won’t
be taking stunt-jumps at
an icy river’s crossing.

I will walk inside a shop
and throw my money
down. I will shout for
all the things I’d like
and receive only some
of the things I do
need. I’ll call for blood
and be denied, again
being forced out to
wander like just another
sales receipt