In the span
of three months:
my friend’s wife died
in a car accident,
his infant son
was diagnosed with
brain cancer
and the company where he worked for twenty years went
belly up.
Considering the
fragility implied by this,
I lose every sense of where I am on this planet
as the GPS of my self
goes on the fritz.
I look up to see
that the grey-haired man
in front of me
pushing a hand-truck
stacked
with cases of beer
has beautiful eyes:
the blue is so light
his pupils are whale white.
I am standing on the sidewalk
in front of 145 South 4th Street,
a woman walks out of the front door of the building crying,
a bottle breaks next to my right foot,
pieces of glass bounce off the scar on my shin,
music CDs rain on the concrete
and a man stretches his shirtless lean out of the 3rd floor window:
“YOU CHEATING FUCKING WHORE!”
Poetry