Remind me why I less often opt for
this lane that features a violet footnote
to the summer; they call her the Railway creeper.
(What’s your story, Morning Glory?)
I piss, salt against salt, a few yards after.
Words like ‘yonder’, names like ‘Ella Fitzgerald’
Are thought-written on the wall.
A dog sniffs its possession.
I can read ‘Mansion’ on the ruins.
The way time wipes its hands
on the back of my jeans
wind sips away all the moisture
but a neurotic stink remains.
Picture Nick Victor