Poetry by Michael Battisto

           ​ ​ versageek CC


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what wasn’t poverty

my pocket full of pigeon feathers,
i copied poems from books 

i could not buy. i worked nights 
locked in a warehouse with men 

who would not have cared if i came 
back the following shift or died 

in a car crash. i gave my mornings 
to the waking city, listening to every 

tongue, of every bell, instead of sleeping.  
i watched a company of escaped parakeets

on the neighboring telephone wire, chittering 
to each other in trinkets of human speech. 

my usual breakfast was stolen bread.
i asked questions to stray cats and paid

attention to their answers. in winter, 
when all the city’s voices could be seen,

i won dollars at street chess, i walked 
till i was warm, and sometimes, when 

only the cold sky was looking, in 
an alley i played a transparent piano.

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Michael Battisto has work that can be found or forthcoming in The Normal School, HAD, Poet Lore, Flypaper Lit, The Shore, MoonPark Review, and elsewhere. He has lived in many places, but now he lives in Oakland. You can find him on Twitter @mbattisto3 or @michaelbattisto.com.