Aegro-tatters

A paleness in the air, hollowed out the
Bed of a scream.A shadow of nothing.
A footprint indeterminate and grey, like old soap ;
worn out bras  and underpants
Men’s hankies
Boiled weekly in Daz.
Scrub it, dear.

Who is here, like the sun in fog
The coal dust makes a canopy
over the crib
Of the unknown baby
Who is not.

The sun hangs off the edge of the day
Like  a mother unwilling to participate
The expression in her eyes
And how it died
Melts into me
And makes me the sculpture  of an aegro-tattered art student
The faker of days.
Well, will we pay?
The sun gets right in my eye.
Arithmetic of nadirs.