Chauncey Street

The wages of sin is death.
J-train clanks above:
know-ledge with-out
   under-standing.

When Butch left the mountains
he had no eager wind, yet
crows and hawks follow him.
   Spent,

his moniker is amazed
at spring sun after sideways rain,
perfectly urban.
   Sheltered, a bed

to lie upon. A weeping sketch
no more, his window is fresh
above the budding street trees.
   And the bodega friends.