by Howie Good

In ragged company
on a day cold enough
to freeze tears

swigging from a paper bag
under the overpass

with the frantic gestures
of a drowning man

and the unseen sea

incited as by dementia
and full of tiny lives

shaking its silver bracelets

by Howie Good

Time to crack open that bottle
the previous tenants bequeathed to us.

We can drink to whatever you want -
lack of sleep, importune prayers,
another day of freedom from the landlord’s

fretful knock - then tumble into bed,
our bones loosened, our minds in happy
disarray, despite, or perhaps because,

it’s now light, and there’s a kind of war
outside our window, and the invisible sniper
in the gaunt bell tower is always watching

with bloodshot eyes for a clean shot.