yelling outside on a hot day

She is the child of 1970's love
In a rage of disco and hot summer nights
conceived at the pinnacle bounce of springs within a small mattress in some long forgotten room
she grew up surrounded by family
she grew to an adult falling in love too much
two kids and no love later
she is at my front window
arguing with a recovering crackhead at the rehabilitation center next door
whether the weather is fair or violent
they circle the small tables in the front shaded by large umbrellas
they smoke their cigarettes and talk in circles
tied together by the ropes of addiction
they circle the back in wheelchairs
smoking between dumpsters
and sometimes at my back gate
someone wants to sell me viagra but I decline
I don't need it yet
when it's quiet I listen
between sirens, fights, and hunger for junk
there isn't much left of any of them
there isn't much left of me
It might not just be a rehab either
some have just lost all they have
minds included
I open the gate and close it
open the doors and go in
but they remain, on the street, in the alley
at least they can share their pain

1 comment: