WE FIX LOCKS

Mailbox
nothing
today.
My super nurses
his magic cup
of orange juice.
I open
and close
the box
in the same motion
shut: no money,
no letters,
no mirrors--technology
has rendered that
mute. Just a card:
We Fix Locks
cheap, 24 hours.
It no longer matters
whether it's broken
or not. Long ago,
when I knew
her time was offered
as a matter of course,
and encouragement screamed
for my father's hammer,
the tumblers set
to zero. Frozen
in a particular mathematic.
Jumping to extremes
but staying put.
Shadows of ice.
Maps
as meaningless as morning.
Nothing,
except locks
cheap, 24 hours
while my veins flow
with unarticulated fire.

Sitting,
no good;
standing, worse.
Outside
trouble;
inside
more trouble.
Worms fall
from the sky
disguised
as rain
while the wood
around me
begins to
weaken...

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013