Needle Loves Pen

green, red, black, white
jumble of gears and spokes
bikes convalescing at the corner

the gray footsteps of hundreds
fast, slow, hurt, hopeful
flowing the street in front of me

how could i deign to know
the meaning of all the echoes
rattling tumbling in my mind

i cling, harder now
to the only truths i know
constantly dying, constantly renewing

to fight or to lay down
to wish or to act
to choose myself, or someone else

as the tires turn
as the footsteps collect
as my mind turns over and over

this is all there is
the venal muse
spent at last