Big City Lullaby
Easy, my egg, my unfried egg.
the hobos browsing.
Their sole objective is to beg
enough to get warm housing.
Easy, my yolk, my yummy yolk.
a fire engine.
The hooligans like to have a smoke
to therapize their tension.
Easy, my bird, my baby bird.
the distant screaming
of schizophrenics that you heard.
They do not know they’re dreaming.
Easy, my chick, my darling chick.
It’s only the junkies getting sick.
They rob, but not us robins.
Lines for a Dead Dog
He’s buried yonder, past the garden shed.
He knew as many as two dozen tricks,
The most impressive being “playing dead.”
He plays it still, but with a crucifix.