our father who art in a penthouse   sits in his 37th floor suite   and swivels to gaze down   at the city he made me in   he allows me to stand and   sollicit graffiti until   he needs the land i stand on   i in my darkened threshold   am pawing through my pockets   the receipts, the bus schedules   urgent napkin poems   and matchbook phone numbers   all of which laundering has rendered   pulpy and strange   loose change and a key   ask me   go ahead, ask me if i care   i got the answer here   i wrote it down somewhere   i just gotta find it   i just gotta find it      somebody and their spraypaint got too close   somebody came on too heavy   now look at me made ugly   by the drooling letters   i was better off alone   ain't that the way it is   they don't know the first thing   but you don't know that   until they take the first swing   my fingers are red and swollen from the cold   i'm getting bold in my old age   so go ahead, try the door   it doesn't matter anymore   i know the weakhearted are strongwilled   and we are being kept alive   until we're killed   he's up there the ice   is clinking in his glass   i don't ask   i just empty my pockets and wait   it's not fate   it's just circumstance   i don't fool myself with romance   i just live   phone number to phone number   dusting them against my thighs   in the warmth of my pockets   which whisper history incessantly   asking me   where were you      i lower my eyes   wishing i could cry more   and care less,   yes it's true,   i was trying to love someone again,   i was caught caring,   bearing weight      but i love this city, this state   this country is too large   and whoever's in charge up there   had better take the elevator down   and put more than change in our cup   or else we   are coming   up