Unsettled

I feel like every time I snap 

a puzzle piece in its place,

I notice one more is missing,

and if I didn't know there was a God 

holding this world together,

I'd swear the box is a few short.

I feel like too many people in this city

pawn their mom's wedding ring

to buy more heroine.

I've seen 

the needles 

in the alleys

and I hear those ambulances wail

 every night.

Turning the corner,

I might stumble upon

the metal carcass 

of an abandoned streetcar 

rotting in a field 

or

a cozy little cafe called On the Hill,

not like Inn on the Hill,

not the run down prostitute motel on a very flat 

34th street, 

but like a green hill 

in a storybook 

where everyone's parents work

and actually love their kids.

I feel like love 

is the most distorted word 

in our language.

I feel like the bell 

ringing from a clock tower right now

is saying "Move,"

and I think about how 

the steeple a few streets over

stopped ringing a long time ago.