(Not) Right

When things
go (not) so right
the clock reads the
time six hours behind,
gray mustache grows long
above the old lady's reddish
lips, and the crown is resting
on the idiot's no-brain; he talks about
his inner scars while the single-legged
wild pigeon is feeding the tobacco
ends - hundreds of them on the
cold concrete - to her little
ones. Yes, that's when
things start to fall
into the (not)
right path.