Tiny one bedroom flat
space heater-warmed
with a phone booth closet
that could store meat -
a kitchen with southern
view of tattooed
John and Rose’s porch
from where he’d flick
his Camel butts
into the seven clumps
of withered grass
trying to be a yard
sans noticeable success.
Residents from the
local sheltered home
with a labored walk
shuffling to work
carrying a Thorazine high -
off to bag incense
eight hours a day
without complaint -
but needing to stop
at the corner store
for their morning
sugar fix of candy and coke
just to feel alive.
Seven years of fun and games
with a revolving door
of friends and lovers –
teaching reluctant
urban teens by day
who taught me
all about the blues
I sought out each night
up and down
Lincoln Avenue bars
where legends
like Dixon, Wolf, and Waters
laid down the timeless licks
that everyone listening knew –
then drank too much
as the nights wore on -
just like the rest of us.
