Salvatore Difalco

Blowy Things

The wind is a torture instrument,
in my face, pricky and violent,
but I lean into it, lean all the way.
This is how the walk to Loserville plays.

Show me your credentials, bud,
or I won’t play chess with you
on the public boards, with the other
patzers wearing fingerless gloves.

We should love each other as we
love ourselves, but if the last bit
of the equation shits the bed,
then what can we offer instead?

Vomit forth, brothers and sisters
and all of you creatures in between.
I respect everyone insofar as they
respect me, a self-identifying loser.

Keep your pointing fingers sheathed,
lest I solicit my dentures to engage.
Being old has its felicities, make
no fucking mistake, all you fakers.

Go on, ask me if I care what you
or anyone else thinks. The truth 
is nobody cares about anyone 
but number one at the end of the day.

The wind is an asshole. In my grill 
like a preacher with nothing to say 
worth hearing and zero good will. 
I say, Wind, go fuck yourself, for real.

Salvatore Difalco writes from Toronto, Canada.