his
cigarette in the high grass as he passes
through
the blacktop school yards.
He
always rides the shadows ‘neath the lit exit lights on 95
at
the border down where the Providence horizon
casts
its glow up toward heaven’s scattered night
clouds
and stars above him.
And
he's a burned out young fart in his hood in the heart
of
the sprawl running goods for the faint.
He
delivers the evening to the others
sitting
out porch steps and tapping landing light switches—
all
of them 14, breaking bottles on the screens,
breathing
bored down and out these stairwells
and standing for their sweets.
There
he meshes Dawn just trying to turn a good girl bad
and
always seems to light a fire under Zach
when
sighted in the neon at the Del's.
But
this night he’s all crazy chasin'em around the diamonds
at
the lit park place to break their nerves
before
lining them up for his double dose of doz
so
that everyone is served.
But
they got the radio booming out on the skate ramps
where
tramps like him go to throw down a bag
or body to kick in with their cleats.
And
it’s there he trades his best boy like some lavatory lord
on
his silver bike before he breaks it west—
before
his red reflectors blaze beneath bulbs
buzzing
over vacant streets.
--Poems from the Sprawl
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