I sip hot coffee
watching July sunrise and shimmer in waves
from the potholed black pavement between me and
one man
walking a peaked rooftop
snapping photos of sun-worn shingles
and rusted chimney flashing while
another man
sleeping under a straggly bush no one has trimmed
since the casino arrived on West Broad when
one girl
with a tiny red checked backpack
and cigarette dangling dangerously from her lips
comes into view
Like phosphorous sulfide
dragged slowly over sandpaper
her presence sparks him
scrambling to wake up, stand up,
brush off his filthy shirt and
drag his drawers up to his waist
against gravity pulling them down
as he stomps cracked sidewalk to
come no closer than the cigarette allows
as she struggles against the wind
to keep her gas station Bic lit long enough
to light the damned cigarette.
Time after time she cups the flame
against his anger and the beratement of his words
made visible
by the jerks of his head
the fling of his arms
the spittle in the corners of his mouth
the red heat rising against blackline neck tattoos
the venom of his presence
the abuse of her personal space.
Without blinking,
she crosses five lanes with him screaming at her heels
to get out of the wind–
or choosing to seek it out.
powerful crossing of paths
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it was definitely an interesting 10 minutes…
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