Not rhyme. No haiku.
No humorous convoluted
ballad of misfortune.
No romance. No grace.
Just blocks of heavy text,
thick and clunky
cinderblocks
of old man
standing on a corner
holding a brown bag
brown bottle lip peep show
poking you in the eye,
driving by
piles of rubble and bits of trash
overgrown by dead weeds,
a tangle of brush, tree limbs
fallen fencing
next to a woman
with pendulous breasts
who cups one to her chest
lumbering barefoot
across the gas station parking lot
heading toward
no door nor nowhere
as far as the eye can tell.
Between the light way, MLK Way
and the setting sun
nestles juvenile detention
East of Main Street:
broken concrete, mad bum pushing
shopping cart sculptures
wearing little in the radient heat.
A busy ballet of cop cars
tours hither and yon,
up and down the side streets,
back and forth on the the main streets
parked and patrolling the back streets
dizzying dance of keeping the peace
past derelict mansions
and sagging tree limbs.
A chicken bone, cigarette butt, toilet tissue:
front yard found objects
Northside treasure hunt
Lone shadow train track
passing lazy freight cars
stopping for hours,
slow to stop and to leave.
Depending on context, when
a woman smiles, boldly
at you as you drive past,
is she friendly or just working?
A bitter man stands on a street corner,
A man, with weight on his chest,
mumbling curses, obscenities,
a sermon to no one the eye can see,
(save God)
from his seat on a newsstand
in front of a drive through
liquor store.
Rims that cost more than cars do
Little girls don't walk alone
Pretty boys get followed home
A driver inches past, returns
slowly stalking by.
Great gouges in asphalt,
sticky tar scent accents
baking concrete.
Mama wants her little baby to be
big time and beautiful someday,
proud to see
what this garden can grow.