So I wrote that poem I was talking about…
On The Fringes
On Tuesday, a man wearing camel hair
made plans with a woman bathed in shades.
Lunch, or breakfast on a Friday.
The first party slept until the afternoon
and the other died in a car crash
at 12:30.
Think not of missed connections.
There are smiling tamale ladies
selling their good in air conditioned doorways.
At night, when the street lamps
are the highest in the sky,
the roads miss the cars and
the traffic lights change out of habit.
The dark is interrupted by second job
taxi cab drivers shining their
searchlights at dilated pupils.
The drunks fall in disregarding
name tags proudly displayed on the dash.
Barks fly from the backseats conveying
slurred directions home.
On Monday morning,
the groundskeeper begins his day
with a cigarette,
spends the whole day picking up
butts and beer cans,
clocks out and smokes another cigarette.
Think not of mid-day deaths.
There are mothers and fathers
sisters, cousins, and brothers
ageing, aching, and dying
on the fringes.
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This is just the first draft…expect more soon.
