Untitled This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine.

   106, about a block away

and eight storeys up,

from the window pane

in front of which I do lie,

sat two men.

Older men - worn and torn

from the lives they led

and the world that led them,

I suppose.

Covered in a semi-sweet sense

of a blue-grass city

they sat, and sat

(and sat a little more).

Broken-down faded Jordans

and desert curls said it all.

Glasses too big, and a shirt

too small, with his hat

cocked to the side, sat the first.

In a glassy-eyed daze of scotch

and welfare sat the second.

Together, they ranted and raved,

they cussed and fussed;

about you, me, the city, the sun.

About being out of vodka.

And suddenly a third man

separate in everything

but decay and style of life, entered.

With some sense of consciousness

more so than the rest, he stood;

yet, he seemed as distant from

the city as my home, hundreds of miles away.

The first offered his seat

and the third offered his drink,

as the second sat and wondered

which city he resided in.

I sat and watched as they ranted and raved,

as they cussed and fussed,

about you, about me, about the city, about the sun.

About, once again

being out of vodka.

And the first noticed my eyes;

he caught a glimpse of my glare.

He stumbled and fumbled toward me,

toward where I did sit,

and stared into my eyes.

He said only one thing -

nothing deep, nor poetic

nor clich"d or vulgar.

One simple thought for this moment

evolved in his mind.

He had a glance at the van's tags, I suppose,

and said to me -

"State to State, Country to Country, Planet to Planet -

Gangstars ... is Gangstars, you know, boy?"

And he reached out his hand

and I took ahold and shook it.

And whether or not it was a joke,

or a thought, or a plea for help -

or just the vodka talking - I don't know.

And whether or not I shook hands

in respect, or in pity, perhaps an

agreement of sorts, or to get him away -

I don't know that either.

I do know one thing -

for a second in time

I could see life from

where he sat, and possibly

he saw it from my view, too.

Though, I never truly

said a word.

And moments thereafter,

at the corner of Liberty

and Fourth, at the site

of Stop 106, we pulled away.

The three of them still sat.

And perhaps, they continue to sit -

ranting and raving,

cussing and fussing

about you, about me, about the city, the sun.

About being out of vodka -

and almost out of time.

This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.

Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

Site Feedback