On the corner of Second and Cross
on a brooding summer's day,
drunk Tammy curses and shouts,
her face a dried up apple framed
by jagged dirty hair, cut no doubt
by her hungover self. With a
deep raspy voice, she accuses
everyone else of ruining her life
then mumbles she just wants a dollar.
The base heads ignore her, or do
their best, and dope boys move a
few steps away. Bird is half hidden
behind a dumpster, the homeless
still have to go pee. Red comes up
pushing his bike. The tireless wheels
loud on asphalt covered in grit
and broken glass. A one eyed dog barks,
and Red talks to himself.
The rag picker clothes, filthy, are
accented with children's stickers
of smiling cartoons that Red has
never seen. At six o'clock, a cruiser
goes by, and the cop hands out hard
looks as citizens return to their cars.
The sweet sickly smell of reefer goes up,
as the sun sets on Second and Cross.
