Icarus fell from the sky
with a noise of the landing B-52 bomber.
his wings were stolen by the unholy panhandler
the moments before he regained back his consciousness.
she found him covered with wax and Albatross feces,
lying down in the puddle whistling Chopin’s Étude in E minor.
she took him home and asked for a child, yet he refused,
but used her body while her soul wasn’t looking.
at the crack of dawn he opened the window of her cozy East Village apartment
spread his arms and stepped down.
I couldn’t finish reading this story,
the lady in the train rolled her Post
and stepped out on West 4th.