The Bridge

A fresh-faced winter. Again
the wind before me,
running between classes
and half-eaten words.

The overblown sub-zero sun
bites my cheeks. Skin
becomes leather--feel it move,
tight and dry around the skull,

waiting for the bus in premature
twilight.

(These superficial pangs are just
chemicals interacting in my brain,
yet feel like feelings in my gut,
in my heart, in my throat)

On the bridge between East
and West bank the other day
a Red Man played bare
naked handed a guitar,
in inhuman cold
and sang a dylanesque
rendition of the inscription
on the statue of liberty:
'Give me your poor your poor
your huddled masses,
dying to be free...'

He made a songbook of the wall.