Where the Poet Roams


2015-07-08-Street-Lamp-at-Night (2)

Dark, dirty streets live in my mind
broken brick alleyways,
the color of blood in the midnight.
Streetlamps from another era
fasten me here for a short while.
The warm stickiness of old city grime,
it’s endless, never removed.
And I wonder,
Is this how it’s done?
Where the last step of a Jazz duo lay,
where the putrid decay of the dirty city lives?
Where words are scrawled across the walls in warm blood,
Is this where you find the poem?

Or just the poet,

Eeks, one of my first published poems; it appeared in Directions magazine about twenty years ago.

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s