a plausible finish

there ought to   be a place to go
when you can’t sleep
or you’re tired of getting drunk
and the grass doesn’t work anymore,
and   I don’t    mean go on
to hash or cocaine,
I mean a place to go besides
a death that’s waiting
and a love that doesn’t work
anymore.

there ought to be a place to go
when you can’t sleep
besides a tv set or a movie
or a newspaper
or a novel about a woman
with her clit in her throat.

it’s not having that place to go
that creates the people in madhouses
and the   suicides.

I suppose what most people do
when there isn’t any place to go
is   to go to someplace or something
that hardly satisfies them,
and this ritual tends to sandpaper them
into a dullness where they can relax
without hope.

those faces you see everyday on the streets
were not created
entirely without
thought:   be kind to them:
they have:
escaped.