On the avenue,
a guy takes his fruit stand inside,
a junkie nibbles on an apple core,
a kid eyes what he might someday steal,
others simply hang about the stoops.
We wind our way through gray light,
tattoos uppermost,
devils and big-busted women,
who we think we are,
our reward in hell.
So many recent scars.
So much unwanted furniture on the sidewalk.
Rough diamonds, more rough than diamond.
A card game on the second floor,
bad hands tumbling through the light.
No doubt where shadows ferry us.
A dim bar. Drinking away the hours
waiting for some other bar to open.
Maybe a fight will break out.
Numbed pain is dear to us.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in
That, Dalhousie Review, and North Dakota Quarterly with work
upcoming in Qwerty, Chronogram, and failbetter.