|
the ticking of a truck
comes and leaves
my butt and calves
on the cold cement
as I sit here
a kid I’ve never seen
arranges chairs
in the restaurant
the black boys walk by
with more flash
than the white ones
but know less about their parent’s music
as I sit here
fingers reaching frigid
remaining silent
breeze finding my ankles
this guy thinks his need for fifty cents
is my problem to solve
and just keeps talking anyway
maybe someone will listen
as I sit here
no longer at work
no longer paid
to hear other people talk
Etta James sounds good right now
or maybe
the way everything was from such a distance
reclining on my mother’s porch
sitting here
things sound like death
things always sound like death
which really isn’t such a big deal
just ask anyone who’s been there before
Next |
