Trigen

The sign hammered to the bricks says Trigen,
and by the sounds I hear, tonight you sing again
Pushing the irons living out of their apartments,
vacant lots, rusty dirt, asleep on the escarpments.

Trigen, Trigen, what is it your bellows make?
A ragman's finger that doesn't break?
An ivy's roots that always take?
Trenchant hands that scratch and rake?

Grays Ferry cuts a diagonal scar
felt underneath the technician's cars.
Walking like moths to a flame,
their soundtrack is the drone at dawn.

Trigen, Trigen, save me from my time not told,
savannah grass under light of gold,
a spindly tree, alone and old,
like sperm to an egg, the snakes grow bold.

Trigen, my sweat is slinking down your steps
you've got the walls of a tomb and your next
song's always playing.
The black streets are greying, your fires braying,
your windows stuck like hands, quietly praying.

Federal St. Heat Master

Federal has a heater in the back of the basement.
He's covered in tinsel and pink insulation.
Thin black skin, and his hair is fine.
His two eyes glow like boxes of wine.

Heater's scared of computers and text messages.
We trade him coffee grounds, picture hangers, and pizza joint menus.
But electric blankets? No.
Broken receivers? Never!
Tattered ikea lamps? Of course not.
3 vacuum cleaners? Never!

Federal has a heater in the back of the basement.
He wears jackets of rugs and similar things.
Spiders and splinters on cracked, silky wings.
Varnish and plaster cover thick, splingy legs.

He's not alone; yes--a rat-sized daughter:
She's made of vitamin bottles and warm, dirty water.
She smells like ball point pens up close and Gap Heaven,
and you can tell she's been crawling on the shelves.

And as legend has it, she keeps the wires running,
the pipes creaky, and the daylight sunny.
You can see her in the fogged-up mirrors,
at the tops of the stairwells,
and when you walk fast past a room.

La la la, la la la laaaa, la la la, la la la laaa