Tuesday, March 15, 2016

Common

Benches have basements. Bolts, concrete, bricks,
four-sided and personal, open, for storage 
for numerous itinerants who pass, go back, sit, 
view the universe in a knuckle, a dime, who
is to say, a man, a woman, a spot, we’re all
on the move, store our papers in closets, holes,
no human should lack space. Benches have basements.
Derelicts fill them, we fill them, each of us
with a location, property, identity, a name, a card. 
Squatters, we’re all squatters. Time is good, 
tasty, for me, for Kristina, we down our vodkas
and my head spins with love, these evenings exist, 
there’s joy, no doubt, but there’s storage beneath 
benches, accessible, roomy, always available.



This poem appears in Stand in the U.K.—Vol.
13 (2)—the most recent issue as of this writing.

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