Without Power in the Basement Gardens of Grace

We had Yugo ham / ham on a string —
tough in the closet.

Fuck it was cold, like your breath
hung for days in the candlelight,
no different than that flat ass smoke
crushed and shit-scared to rise.

We had ham and Bulgarian goat
cheese — a winter’s worth of dry,
crumbled, a peasant’s worth
of pocket knife, salt and thin-sliced pig.

We had a hundred foot
extension cord — one fat
orange access to juice,
Who needs laundry anyway?
Must have been forty plugs,
so somebody’s grimes
are ready for spinning,
anytime.

No green but the weed.
No pulse but the red spikes
on the Onkyo — lightning
fed blue to turn a wick tight —
the votives gone smudge,
Bic-blind and pooled out
like ponds with ash for fishes.

Some call them gardens,
I suppose the windows make them so,
high up the wall, and too small
for breathing. You lie low,
down in the root, see
feet and squatting dogs,
tires and boots, sludge —
all the stuff that grass seeds
before being stepped on and broke.

Yea, it was cold, but
we had ham,
we had cheese,
we had music,
and all of it, stolen.

Image: Taylor Young on Unsplash

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