small gods

There is this cold concrete;
that which has cradled ants and things,
on which lays cigarette butts and remnants of long nights.

On this cold concrete there is
skin,
the thud of a heart laying in rest,
restless thoughts.
And body;
the unbroken pieces finding haven
against a warm wind.

There is this cold concrete
to cushion hot thoughts,
to cool arteries and veins,
human parts.

On this cold concrete there is
a hard head
facing up at the world
asking no one in particular if this
small place,
this false start,
this patch of cold,
is all there is.


(Image: Tema Stauffer)