Leaky kitchens, leaky vans
as the rain comes down again
– can I fight the always-entropy of a shelter coming apart?
– can I make a place with so many of us packed in here?

I can make a bender, but can I make a home?
And what can I wish for as we wait
for the day the sun rises and the tide
– fat with melted arctic ice –
runs up the channel
and swamps our fat valley,
with a voice of grinding metal and brick
like the everyday voice of the city
and scarce louder
(?)

So meantime we run to places like this
where for the price of a pint (cheers!)
we can gather warm and dry
and let someone else worry about the structure
and share some words, or a song

a few glad fragments of knowing