I wrote a poem today

DOWN THE HILL THEY COME
wispy slitted wind rustles her sotted dyed hair
her gait down the pavement
a puddled mule
her shades on this brilliant eye popping spring
the milk of her husky crunked sweatshirt
she is a big girl
full of slip and slides and plastic flamingo porches
the mad hilarity of a thousand children
creeking out the cracks in her tennies
and he
his folded up baseball hat
covering a tangled morass of cobbed hair
his golden moustache stained in the conversation of smoked refuse
his torn jeans revealing a brazen sinfully white rusted knee
the mass of reds and yellows on his black shirt selling car parts to the growing cacophany of mad mad tikes
swarming the road with glee and mouths to feed
and they are holding hands
and it is this that i saw
peeking out from their counterintuitive black shrouds
flesh fingers bent together
holding softly as their feet push with umph against the asphalt
down the hill and into town
the cooing of their joining blanketing their steps
in a pale array of conjugal glimmer
like the candy sweet gust
of breath from the Aces drunks
that pours a cool shade over the glazed eyes along river st.
the poverty of my town swims sweetly in their fingers
the hobbled pace
of each their jeaned leg
resists
the pull
of the graviational descent
emptying out
onto Chase Avenue
and then town
spilling into the mouth
and trickling deceptively past its lips
the few that walk here
bare its mark
the path along the road
a place to emerge
from the dim glow
of cards, noodles and pillows
the day strikes light
accusingly along their shoulders
and weeds their condition for the cars to see
their lines in their fingers caressing each other
in the mournful brilliance of their affections

-April 16, 2006