there is a song for this

there is a poem on the skin of scratched graffiti.
it is called "a collection of tuesdays" or
"what are you willing to remember?"
and i don't know if i could ever forget
the area of her hips or
the way she always spells
the word tomorrow wrong and
i wonder if it's on purpose.

there is a name for this.
it is called "bicycles on the sidewalk
without wheels" or
"the song of collapsing telephones".
who would you even call, and
is there anything anyone fears more than
a diseased bird?

there is a will for this.
it is called
"boy digging through garbage at
three in the morning" or
"metal stop sign rusting behind
the faceless naysayers of
torn chain-link fences".
i see it gathering the night
and its edges say alone,
because who but the alone
would stop to watch the
errors in manufacturing,
the empty cathedrals beneath cities?

there is a song for this
but i don't remember what it was
going to be called,
and the stoplights are bleeding.