Poem for Frenchy

With you I am not you, in winter there are drugs, scrappy
streets, you can dream food, and only see the life others
carry around in hand bags,
small circular warnings, how sky opens it’s well fed mouth-
jump in, jumping in, if rails were closed,
the secret is, no one is human,
but they know how to do human so well.
In the missions, on cots, coughing through the night with
something serious burning in the lungs,
"I used to be so full of life" you can say to the air,
the air that makes you sick
or in lofts where hipsters have trendy sex,
that just means they don’t look at each other,
and the hardest part of life, when the elevator
won’t work, when items are sold out,
when bums are in your way-
I go into the wall, with my face,
smash things, the idea of self, or history,
taking a long time to give decent bread to a close friend,
the ground where love grew, whose brother-sisters
sat helpless in rain,
who laughed a great deal about the whole thing,
when I see a good mattress on the street I think of how to get it to you.