He lies alone in an alley,

no job, no life, no home.

Pink umbrella under a window,

she works all alone.

Black BMW passes slowly,

wipers cutting the unknown.

Curled in a bloody corner,

he moans and moans and moans…

A light blinks on, shade drawn down–

Juan Carlos is home.  

A bottle thrown into the alley,

shut the fuck up in Spanish– 

he groans; she stares into darkness– 

it’s clear, he’ll die on his own.

She glares–headlights turning,

tonight she won’t be alone.

****

Categories: Poetry, Selection: 2010 - 2015