Cerelia M.
Every morning, we make sure that Plastic Jesus is in his altoids case
on the dashboard. Helps keep the clouds out of our heads
as we roll down the block, plagued by early morning light.
The house is quiet, but my brother's jacket is still warm on the kitchen chair.
Someone fires off a couple shots- sounds like a '22,
but my neighbor swears it ain't his.
I try to fix my hair like my Grandmother's
while the mirror rages behind the gla**-
you ugly, dirty, shining star.
Another hour shoveling dirt, then we're free-
gotta change the tires before we rush off into the neon night before us.
Remember to leave the phone in your pocket, sis,
so we can keep doing this, tonight, and the next night, and the next-
makes you think the headaches might be worth a dollar or two.
On one of the sagging telephone wires,
A white dove pecks at a pair of faded red sneakers.
There's an old man on the corner,
made ragged by the slow onslaught of time.
He's holding an empty bottle to his chest like someone's gonna take it from him, and
when I ask him of he's all right he replies:
“It's a nice day. God, it's a beautiful day.”
And he starts to cry.
Next to the mailboxes on the corner, two dogs fight over a dead pigeon.
Not for the first time, I wonder how things would have turned out if
They'd taught me fractions, instead of how to throw punches.
But that's a question for those who live beyond the wall;
For the rest of us, we're free to keep a piece of the light
inside the pockets of our jeans,
something bright and wild like the music that
sinks through our feet and pounds the pavement.
We know,
between the concrete walls and searing metal,
and the slow pull of gravity, beyond doubt,
we were made only to hear each other's voices.