Bluesinger
Michael Hurley
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Everyone is searching for an origin;
time runs down.
When the homeless clip their toenails,
Pittsburgh ticks like a clock.
Death I’ve heard
is the dusting of an artifact.
Keep peeling onions.
Keep digging for seeds.
Just a bit of cinnamon and a green chair
from the lobby.
My daddy was a cactus, momma
was a prune. All I have now are ghost stories.
Said my daddy was a driveway
to turn around in. Momma was a cul de sac.
Brush off the dust
with a fossil brush.
Can’t you see
this is a funeral?
Can’t you see
this is a window
without glass?