Poetry

Jared Smith

Not Owning an Address

Sitting in sun on the bench
he hears hints of expectations
what year is it now what
phone number rings in the night
what day of the week and where
do you live. Yes
thank you, I do
but in all the weight of years
the wait of time woven around ears
each infinite digit of each number
is a still point encompassing nothing
smaller or larger than the corona
of an eye and I'd as soon sleep
here in the heart of man
as any hard point in time.