on the estates dawn-yellow hem
the unwrapped cellophane
of fresh cigarettes
was tugged like a wind sock
in the commute-o-clock breeze
its rip strip
a silver tendril
friction clinging
to the hand-me-down fingers
of my bus fare palm
& the mezcal hangovers
were their very own drug
back in the radiohead days
that called my work boots lucid
& the flats great golden bales
