Poetry Writings Artwork and stories from Neil Furby

I climb out the window across the street
The wall’s revenge,
The yellowish mouth
Of someone else’s stained window ledge.
Shadows hang down
Glancing haughtily around.
Yesterday, at twelve thirty
My veins were sliced by the moon.
I wasn’t the first,
I don’t ask for glory or bread
As I glance calmly at the heavens,
Remaining like a simple marcher in a parade.
But all the same, where were you
When I was carried
In someone’s arms
Right past your garden?

From the book “A Voice”

@  Angelina Polonskaya