Heart of the Tearing
A chap book of poetry, Red Dust Press
Four Eggs and a Ring
Atop this roof
I could see smoke stacks wherever I looked,
couldn't spot the sandals I lost, running.
Today I'll step down:
the bazaar may have opened again—
long lines, a radio crackling like foil.
They say I can have four eggs
for my toe ring of silver,
bundles of samosas for my watch.
Burnt fields, no more cane to weave.
Beyond, a train waits for people, coal
to take to the city.