LIKE LICORICE STICKS
Bet Quasimodo never did this.
Like licorice sticks on a ten
year old's face, the grime is
worse than the sticky. Here at
the underpass I await still
another train. It's six a.m.
again. I used to watch the
sunrise, ten years back; over
the old factory it would slowly
pour its light and - as I looked
out east - I'd see the refinery
towers and hear the turnpike
roar. Early morning was such
a gas.
-
That's all gone now too,
replaced by impounded
weasels and imported waifs.
From here where I sat, the
First-Aid Squad beckoned
Margee's to enter its rescue
mode, and the latter-day
saints tried breaking down
doors to lessen their Dunkin'
Donuts load. Traffic started
crawling after seven, but I'd
be already long on my way.
Past the graveyards and refineries
again; past the back ends of
Merck and Anheuser-Busch.
Down railroad corridors of
cinders and Newark's slow
push-door of idle malaise.
-
The first time I ever saw an
8-Ball jacket, I was totally
amazed : It was on the back
of some black kid who'd
been out for days. A Derek
Jeter railway poster hung
above his head.
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