on my bald head,
as I take the garbage out.
Tomorrow's gonna be chilly,
and I have chemo,
so better rock a hoodie.
The sunsets in South Florida,
best seen in Publix parking lots,
are as magical as a daily Monet.
From my stubborn street,
I can see the Everglades on fire,
and beyond forever.
I am a meta martyr,
writing poetry on a fake moon Friday,
like something out of a Springsteen song.
Complete with blue collar doldrums,
and the dichotomy of nostalgia,
my daughter still holds my hand in parking lots.