Driveby
The car lot on 7th is full again,
all tough leather and chrome and whitewall,
sports model firebrand deluxe model engine stalled.
I told Mallary I’d call. But I was caught up.
There was a catfight and bar brawl.
7th avenue clientele. All hush hush after nightfall.
It’s another cityscape’s white bright heroin night.
Pretty colors flash devilish dresses for the scummy lowlife,
brothels, speakeasies, and turntables,
small screams, seedy dives, back ally schemers.
It’s hot, and as my car stops, I see a gun flash
trailing my headlights. Two pops, broken windows. All stop.
Wet neck with hot skin. Porch light flickers off and on again.
Vision blurs. Pale yellow bars, black earth, white hot stars.
Bleeding out on 7th Street. Three miles from paradise.
Cop lights shine, whispering safety but I fall asleep.
An American Poet 