Poetry
Junkie in white socks-
Just past the Mongolia grill
The hopped up movements of
The star sailor in white socks
Catches my stray eyes between
Rush hour traffic and
construction time.
He Ricochets between the gutter
And the chipped bricks.
A street sickness - a tick on the back of the city in most peoples
Eyesights.
Turning their carnival ticket In
Faces away but still
Fascinated by his rhythm
And loss
of timing in time.
No shoes
and in the spotlight
In front of the refined silk business suits
Wrapped warmly in money
And aces
They all have places safe to lay
imperial heads.
Two bulldogs cross chains
By the pizzeria
One is younger and tough
The older one ecstatic and
Gentle.
The street lingo is thick
Like the overnight rain
That soaked through 5 layers
Of cardboard he slept on
The junkie without shoes
Is being led by his alley
bed mate.
She is an addict too
But waits till he is awake
To play spoons.
When he is straight
He protects her from the smoking
Wolves and grey fixes with knives
That leave deep marks.
This alley is a raised scar
the maserati in crimson red and grey detail spreads
Loose gravel against the opulence
Of light in dust Wrestling with his
pungent strides.
Where once a golden child resided
Mosested
Before the silver needle
Pulled a fast one.
Francis A Willey
September 19 2013