78. YMCA

I feel
butchered and quartered
staying at the Y

everything’s neat and clean
clichés and christian virtue

somebody took a toothbrush
and cleaned out the bathroom
so it gleamed
he was trawling to blow

someone’s crawling
in the woodwork
cleaning away
a million stale particles
of long–ago dreams

but he can’t get
to the ceiling
because he’s not big enough
and there it’s all black

yellow buses come and go
shouting kids, on and off
“our heart’s in our purpose!”
“our heart’s in our purpose!”
this place makes me sick

I’ve got the tower window
at the Y
now I can see everything
I see the drops
before they hit
I see cars
in their narrow lanes
before they crash
but only I know when

I see a crowd in the middle
of the block
where can they be going
all the different people
why do they stand together
hippies and patriots
when they rip each other apart?

someone asks a cop
looks to the law
but he shrugs
cant help you pal
thirty centsll get you there
somebody snickers
and I think he’s a rebel

now the crowd again
          looks blankly
into oncoming traffic
          (waiting? hungry?)

I’ve lost every hunger
except the hunger to speak
and then I can only
speak of hunger.