Scratched

But I liked being sick
In the south
Of France, loved
Even after I'd stolen
Five francs to buy a frozen
Milkyway after school, and friends
Were water to wet
The hard skin
Enveloping my angst

I wanted to be a stone
To kill
The cancer flaring
In my mammie's lungs
But there were always
Pigeons

With darting eyes
And sharp claws
To doubt

The balcony
Was too high
The air too thin
To catch
Falls after dinner.

I always thought I knew
The white rain I bathed in, soft
Soapy words from the AM radio
At one o'clock
In the morning.