On Being Exhibited

I switch off the respirator
and lie in the dark of death
while light tries to break through

Birds sing on the telephone wires
Cars roar up and down the
snaking black freeway cutting
through the middle class teepees
with their black yawning
eyeless windows

My creations are lying in state
on the other side of the city
Where i never lived
Im waiting here,
where I was brought from
My boyhood tomb
Waiting for some sort of death
Some sort of life
Some creation
In the shadows cast
by the carefully planted trees
of my youth