oh, to be sitting with jack kerouac

the clouds no longer pink I sit alone on the rocky shores, not cold or warm,

scanning for bears as streetlights grow and the river grows, brighter and louder,

a child calls from the distance, my mind imagines his death, a morbid thing,

the trees look more like black, the stones more like purple, once green and red

I have nowhere I wish to be so my body melts down through my feet,

keeping me in the evening, waiting, for danger or daylight.