Humidity by BiographyofRed8

On a humid night of spiders
The pacific smell of nutmeg
Wafts through iron barred windows
Of houses in old milk-bar store-fronts
Groaning with the little pieces of wisdom
Sold for the white-shaking habit of renovated tax-refunds

The dead man walking remains
Beneath a fountain of different flowerings
His hospitality in death chants
Olive branches from the old country-drawing his eyes
Over the dark rich brown of the boys of night
The curve of where spine meets tail
A finger-to linger-a tongue to lap-a cheek to slap

He may have been born yesterday
But he is older than time-sinking into spirals
Of city limits, tram tracks-this city is the stranger
Now, no longer an old friend
The bone to pick at a scavengers feast
Of breaking voices remote as a muted drum
And the agony of remembering.