Unemployment, Night 6

When thunder woke
finally, my living room
windows perfectly framed
its burlap anger, evangelical

The corduroy couch beneath
me, that lonely pilgrim,
knelt amidst the wildling
morning, fragile as

matins On a pathway in a park
called Adulthood, a woolly storm
dangles acorns above the ground
in which they will take root,

huffs to tamp the sound of azaleas
pining for one another,
tears magnificent holes
into the damp fabric of

an august morning In my empty living
room, I wake somehow facing
the window and wait for tendrils
of gold lamé to again point me

toward a fog-laden city My hands
will rebuild each patchwork block, only
stopping when the inevitable silken
evening blots the buildings from view

Early draft of an elegy. Constructive criticism welcomed.