23rd Street

Saddled with wet jeans and eyebrows
The layer of Afro-sheen slides onto my forehead
My forehead still has a clutter of rain, sweat, and worry
About the next morsel of bread
The bread doesn’t have to be smothered in Danish butter
It doesn’t need jam
It does need to be in tune with Roger Waters on the wall, as he
Elevates my slumber to satisfaction