On the street, some guys played soccer with a cat
filled with sand,
while others used sparrows and rocks
as tennis balls.
Cars kept passing by, now and again,
a monotone procession,
driving the faceless from work.
Car horns and swears slashed the dusty daylight.
On the playground, George stopped swinging,
and injected mud into his forearm.
On the front stairs to my cubical apartment building
John was getting a frantic bj
from his chubby girlfriend
as he stroked his favorite stray dog.
At the place across the street,
Tudor and his gang were gathered
around a broken cellar window
throwing in firecrackers
and lighted cigarette butts.
Screams and guffaws
cut into the evening’s
jaundiced underbelly.
Up on the second floor,
Mr. Sharp took long puffs from his smoke,
face twisted in a scowl,
soccer game commentary
blasting from inside.
His wife-beater was stained with blood.
I walked to the gray building next to mine.
Old Dick was doing his thing
Climbing between the opposing walls of the two places,
Hands against one, feet against the other.
He got to the first floor, shaking,
Face red with strain.
A small group of fans looked up,
Mouths agape.
The ponytailed girl with a short leg
counted for hide and sick
as the Siamese twins
hid behind the abandoned car on bricks.
Inside, Andy “Fathead” went “Vroom-vroom-vroom.”
Angela was at the usual spot,
On the stairs around the corner,
Talking about a telenovela
with the brown and chubby midget woman.
Angela ruffled my curly hair.
“My handsome lil’ prince,” she said.
I sat next to her, began eating sunflower seeds,
and caught glimpses of her generous cleavage,
and the tender skin under her flowery dress.
Her hairy warmth was as salty as the seeds in my mouth.
Angela’s husband was in jail,
and her boy was subnormal, housebound,
with a leaking eye.
To the west, beyond the tops of the drab buildings,
the sky was bloodied and bruised;
the night would be warm and wet
like a festering wound.
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