black coffee waifs through the air
as chiffon glides upon the currents
arabian smells mixes with clove cigarettes
melancholy beckons as a friend
who you have not seen in years

blue skies protrude from under the nimbuses
playing a childlike game of hide and go seek
illusions dance upon the fabric of time
characters portrayed in cyclic celluloid

on the corner is a young black man
playing jazz upon a worn out trumpet
each note grabs on to the next
as if it would die without the cohesion

the prostitutes in high heel stilettos
stand in a row as fish in a cooler
johns trying their best to choose
which flavor to digest this morn

I remember as a child talking to one
my mother was aghast but my father
he was called by name by one
and she gave me a kiss
it was my first
in many ways

my dog lies upon the moldy brown sofa
where my left over pizza drapes over the cushion
a burnt out roach cleverly wedged between
pepperoni and tomato sauce
last night’s soiree
a foggy recollection somewhat pops it head out

the music stops
a gun shot is heard
running feet beat out a rhythm upon the cobblestone path
and I wonder
when this will end
I look out the window
Just another day in the ghetto

04/24/2005

Posted on 04/24/2005
Copyright © 2024 Mark Maxey