| |
|
|
|
|
| |
Sunday Morning
for Victoria
A fence keeping back jalopies
Divides with a
Notice: These Lions Will Bite
Yet the men stride by to work, Smile
Good morning.
Up are the god fearing
An old young man leans his body towards his gaze
Shakes the mat and a raspy cough.
He rights himself.
Rakes his thin hair with thinner fingers
Moves past peeling paint and stained glass
Turns off the alarm.
My Sister, there is something for you here
Where the bikes are stacked three deep
Locked under a cooler on a poorly patched roof
And a store tapes a sun-faded sign in the window
ATM: Try any card.
The moon, a bitten fingernail,
Digs into the morning flesh.
Around a sidewalk of sopes and tortas,
Littered gulls, scatter.
The cans and bottles are nearly absent,
The street not yet picked clean.
|
|
|
|
|
|
