rundown
house
walking
trash-littered sidewalks
of empty downtown streets
gazing through vacant
rain-streaked
windows
nothing much to believe in
under this gray sky
of deserted cotton mill smokestacks
& overworked churches
a dying southern town
of forgotten working men—
some, considering
reckless measures
to pay one more
month’s rent
on a rundown house
with peeling paint
& rotting bones
a tiny, chambered
heart—
hardly beating
you can feel
the hard times
right down to the soles
of your shoes
as you seriously
try to wish yourself
into the faded painting
on the outside
of the defunct bus depot
a greyhound—
somewhere
on the road
the “big
easy” lies
like a dark, bleeding animal—
an old man with no name
face washed away
by hurricane rains
dies without objection
over two bottles of water
& half-a-bag
running like a
wild dog,
the young killer
stares down
through bewildered eyes
trying hard to work
his own angle of reference
dying remnants of
order
struggle in the bloody water
then sink— eight feet
to the sidewalks
of canal street
