The docks will set the cold into your bones
if you’re not careful. Bundle up: today’s
not even close to being over. Zone
the cans, phone senators—it’s every day,
the grind, the wind, the power plays behind
closed doors. You’re Frank Sobotka, you’ve got this.
You’ve learned how to disguise a heart that’s lined
with huge-ass pillows full of feathers. Kiss
the bills that made you who you are. They taste
like victory. A picture of those girls
swims up before your eyes—an awful waste,
but not your fault. You didn’t know. Uncurl
your fingers from around that box of glass.
You’ve got this. You’re Sobotka. Kick some ass.
THE WIRE POEMS! By Elizabeth Wilcox! Oh my god!
Can I request an Ode to Omar and a poem for Roland ‘Prezbo’ Pryzbylewski?
(Source: ecantwell)
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