Listening To Trucks
Listening as trucks on Frankford Avenue
rattle the walls of my home,
I wonder if all these little earthquakes
that occur all day and night
will weaken the structure I sleep in.
Will they sound a warning horn
before the walls come tumbling down?
Or will I wake one morning,
or not wake at all,
covered with crumbling bricks
and shattered timbers?
I don’t worry about it long.
I will never be able to afford to move.
This is my life.
Another risk I have taken.
I need not travel
to India to hunt tigers with a bow.
There is sufficient danger
right at home.
I will go on living
as if each day might be my last,
trying to squeeze joy
from every moment,
until all that is left is a rind.
That will get buried somewhere.
Does it really matter
if it is under mud and grass
or masonry, wood, and roofing tiles?
Horror Sleaze Trash 