Walking Pneumonia

The Walking Pneumonia and the Third and Pike Flu

As I get off the bus at Third and Pike,
pneumonia opens its black flowers
in my congested lungs,
that wheeze over and over
like a beaten up accordion.
To the west, the crimson
hands of the Pike Place Market clock
shine like the hidden twilight sun,
as they close down the day
in a cold precision.
Screamin’ Jay Hawkins plays
kazoo on the corner –
looking for spare change
in this year of dying newspapers,
bad credit and home foreclosures.

I got the walking pneumonia
and the Third and Pike flu;
I’m down with the overcast sky
and the motley crowds
streaming through my eyes.

A loud, tobacco lacerated cough
scrapes the air seeping gray winter light
from the Puget Sound
into the approaching night
of this glittering internet city.
Drifting cell phone chatter
and the dialogue of traffic
reverberate through the fever
whirling my body in
fire and icy clamor.
My mind plays badly like
an out of tune guitar,
amid the early
evening crowds of office workers
hurrying to their suburban cars.

I got the walking pneumonia
and the Third and Pike flu;
I’m down with the overcast sky
and the motley crowds
streaming through my eyes.

2009