Your bones make a clickityclackclacknoise:
hightops scrapin like antlers on the painted sidewalk
while the rain chases chalklined star patterns
into all the gutters.
Who are you to tell them where they go and when
A work shirt makes a shitty umbrella
but the people outside the bars
all clamor to light your cigarette.
The people in this town,
they love a charity case.
They all love
to light your fuckin cigarettes.
Shake your bones, kid.
Let the antlers rattle in your boots
and when you walk through their living rooms
do not stoop to scrape the chalkmud from their floors
or make your sweeping bows so genteel
you brush the ceilings with the backs of your fists.
They paid for the hurricane patterns
you leave in the blankets at their bedside.
They love to toil after the sculptures of beer cans
they sat at a desk all day to afford for you
and begged for the noteless indent in their intimate places
where you cannot be found in the morning.
The people in this part of town,
they love to have their hearts broken.