If you were my brother and fell off a fence
To land on the blade of the sign of the times
The stadium opens and shuts, would you wrap
Your hand with your shirt and then drive by yourself
To Kaiser, not calling me—weaving your car
While sloshing the blood 'round the floormat and drunk
On loss, and then wait in a line 'till they stitch
Your hand? Would you lie to them, saying I'm near
And circling blocks for a space, so they'd leave
You pallid, anemic and shambling down
Past levels that slant in the parking garage?
If later, you asked me to help you with chores
And told me you cut yourself walking the track,
I'd think to that time that I shouted you out
Of coma. Your pancreas rotted; you'd nap
While driving through Oakland and wake to my hand
On wheel as I'd veer us away from the road.
I'm sure at that moment you'd wake up in shock,
Then sleep once again in your guilt while I'd walk
To purchase a candy at stores where the red
On packages looks like the red of your car—
The color that links us through loneliness shared.
“At the height of this summer's heat wave, some doctors warned that a few hours of inhaling the thick, acrid smog that blanketed Moscow was like smoking a pack of cigarettes.
One scientist declared that cases of suicide, diabetes and alcoholism would soar once winter set in because of the aftereffects of the toxic smoke.”
– Alexandra Odynova, The Moscow Times, August 29, 2010
http://www.themoscowtimes.com/news/article/worries-over-smogs-effects-decline/413880.html
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