city.
Broke, broken.
Like an addict doing his last line of coke and then overdosing
on a blood-stained carpet.
Deader than the streets at dawn on a Sunday.
Days, days pass before anyone even notices the smell.
Hell, it took a week last time.
If it wasn't for the baby crying,
no one would have found the hookers' body in 5a.
Thank God for small favors.
Today I saw an old man dancing to the music of car alarms
as he waited for his son to return home from a war
who knows when or where…
The street stinks of garbage after a light rain,
and clouds of tobacco hang in the air.
Somewhere a stereo booms the sultry voice of Billie Holiday:
"Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze…"
Eerie melodies release you from any ease
you might have felt previously, if only for a moment.
You can never be too comfortable.
The street lights just turned on
and it will be night soon.
The paper-strewn alleyways
fill quickly with those who have no beds
and dread the fear of no walls, no floors,
no locks, no doors to call their own.
A voice moans in the distance
and sends an unwelcome chill through my bones.
It rattles the senses.
I am aware, yet frightened.
My senses heightened, I walk briskly to my apartment
and go inside, locking all six deadbolts behind me.
I see, I see out the window
a girl staring blankly at an almost-burnt-out cigarette butt on the stairwell.
It's clear she's not all there,
and she sees angels in those tiny cinders.
And it really makes you wonder if
aware is what we want to be,
when the crazy are the ones who can so clearly see
the only things worth looking at anymore.
A flea-infested cat screeches, howls into the dark
as the night settles in and stifles my thoughts.
I can hear the thump-thumps
of my neighbors sin
against the wall, as I curl up into a ball
and drift, drift off to sleep
with one eye open.
© 2010 doll.li
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