Riffing on Forche's "The Colonel"

The moon swung bare on its black cord over the house,
above our city that reeks of shit at 1:12 AM,
a chill raising little skin pips on the fellow
wearing only blankets beside the Goodwill.
Driving at night without headlights is possible only
because of the sheer number of street lamps,
those flickering, indolent antennae sprouting
from busted concrete, and of course you take
advantage, one hand jutting into the cold
with its middle finger parallel with the lamps,
eating shit with that grin. I have
wanted to capture you in little coal grids,
only when you grin like this. I think
it would scare the children by the gallery,
preschoolers whose parents would object
to the gallery's location, but it's far too cold
and dark now to matter.