Invisible Birds

In the alley behind, Jack smoothed back his wet mop.
And tightened a belt around his upper arm
Only to find the devil had switched his needles
With ones from behind a toilet at the bar.
He forgot who he was.
Which is as good a place as ever to start
Writing someone else’s poem, badly
To sabotage all their dreams of print
To make them cry late at night, punching their pillows
And cussing at trees and calling the homeless snakes
Out into moonlight, with their heads to the ground.