when in rome

casablanca


wasted, away


the yellow
reminds me
of this old

clown

fellow, who
knocked on our door
when i was a kid, selling
tricks, a dance, a befuddled
jig, like a plate of fruit
cocktail
about to
slip

my mother always yelled at us for
talking
to him
but these are

my

teeth. my blinking
existence. my loose
bulb
in the arch above some
peeling path

linoleum
curled
up
like some
dying
hand's grasp, when

what is there left
to hold
on

to?

carbon [fucking] anchors away.