February
Luck waited outside my door, tripped me early
and still half asleep, watched me roll down the stairs
and handed me a band aid when I glared at his eyeholes.
Woke with asphalt in my beard, kids jaywalking
over my face so they could steal CDs from the library
across the street.
Woke rich with soil, pockets full of loam.
Woke easy and new. The cells on the back of my hand
are fresher than locally grown lettuce.
Woke, sat up and stretched. The crick in my back, my back,
my wallet was gone. The shoes that'd been pinching my feet
were stolen by an old lady across the hall. Every Tuesday
when I get home from work, she asks me to take her trash
to the dumpster, those new shoes, they hurt her toes so.
CL Bledsoe
Posted over on Thieves Jargon
1 comment:
I've always liked the word loam, so fertile with promise.
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