Poetic Angst

Friends don't let friends
write angsty poetry.
Just say no. It's a gateway
drug to ska bands and
unkempt hair, plum nail
polish and leather shoes
made by a fat Italian
who thinks your jeans are
a genetic disorder that caused
your legs to atrophy
into black matchsticks.

The man who sits with his face to the sun

I asked if he had a home, a family.
He replied with a cresent of white
teeth and a proverb
about the heart and its analogy
to home; "They're like fire and smoke."
(Smile) "Today it's lodged
on the 500 block of State."
He only blinked
when asked if he had been
perched on this caving concrete long.
(Smile) Silence slunk between us, froze
like a dead thing gaping up
with glassy eyes. I didn't notice
it had begun to rain. I didn't notice
the way his lank hair hung like a curtain,
slowly closing under the weight
of the rain, or my words. His gothic face
coursed with rivets of water,
drained into the still shining
panel of teeth. He shrugged deeper
into the fold of his wings.
"I would have asked
for something brighter and harder
than your blue eyes."
As I turned towards home, I was still
unsure how I could mistake
him for me.