Down In The Jungle
The wind blows
a man with
an iguana
on his head
past my apartment.
Who?
Iguana Head.
And down in Brooklyn,
Terrance walks
by
old shooting gallerys,
that once
were mistaken
for confessionals;
he calls them,
the Iguana Projects
YO !
and lumbers along
as an elephant,
carrying the little ones,
whose smiles
weigh nothing
yet ride
as kings
over carpets
of concrete.
