Chicken Fricassee and Concrete

Milky foamy afternoon
two sleepy dawns
the walls of a pram
a voice, was it?
A street, scabbed knees.
Not wearing long pants
maybe dresses; but running.
Not keeping mouth open, close it!
Chicken fricassee and concrete.
Fields of wheat with
angry farmers.
The smell of pencils.
Hands and dance.
Cold moving away.
The United States.
The World.
The United States.
The state. The neighorhood.
With every passing day
one setting sun and night.
The house.
The room.
The bed.
The closed eyes.