As Evils Go

I didn't say I wasn't crazy.
I didn't say I was.
What I said
if you would just listen
is that sometimes I hear the stars singing
when you lie there sleeping
and you think I am too.

Sometimes, when you lie there sleeping
I smell apples roasting in the sun,
stems stretching under dead weight,
hanging on desperately
to children grown, bags packed,
doors half open.

Blue skies yawning
where taxicabs wait with shaking motors
and ferrymen smelling of stale cigarettes
wait glumly for fares.