In the greasy morning mirrors
I barely even acknowledge myself
And I can’t remember how to sing
Songs I used to know by heart
Surely what’s wrong with me is not
The same as what’s wrong with you
Surely I comprise a special case
When I pace the apartment I know
I’m practicing for future hauntings
But I am unable hear what I need to
And I can’t see that special tree
At the edge of that essential forest
That they’re proposing to bulldoze
Probably any morning now
We’ll wake up to the sound of saws
Yes I can almost already
Smell the sawdust rising
On the too-cool wind
Some midtown Hedgefund Asset
Manager probably paid to have
Blown in it isn’t very funny how
The people with all the money
Blow it on blow-outs on mirrored
Balloon dogs on space tourism
No not funny at all
How they have no idea
How to spend it yet also
Have no idea how not to
Spend it so they spend it
They buy massive acreage
Of scrub fields then flood them
With filtered water and seed
To construct a giant lawn
Men will Sunday mornings gather on
In their finest slacks and shiny
Loafers to feign athleticism
To pay the greens fees
To prove it
Zachary Bond holds degrees from Vassar College and UMass-Boston. He lives and writes in Somerville, MA.
VAGABOND CITY 