Out our front door
and to the left at the corner
on our block (neighborhood not cell)
sits a house that crack built.
It survives and thrives with a constant flow
of clientele, fresh
out of prison.
There are no billboards
yet. They advertise on the sidewalk
with spray paint
and on the power lines
hung with tennis shoes
looking limp and blue tongued
as an overdosed corpse.
The red eyed patrons
come and go, come and go
like shy little pisser’s sidling up
to a urinal. They come
day in and day out in their stolen cars
and low rider jeans.
The police don’t care.
They have either given up or in
to the governor and mayor. I really can’t say
one way or the other, but it all started
back in the sixties
when Timothy Leary and the Weathermen
ripped the heart out of God
and government. I’ve learned to listen
even in my sleep.
Richard Rensberry, author at QuickTurtle Books®