Before dawn, Highway 6 bridge.
Mallard ducks wobble across wet pavement.
I scatter bread,
grab my big black garbage bag,
take a few morning swigs
to knock off the shakes,
vomit it back up.
City sleeps, dumpsters smell of rot.
I climb in, sifting through cat shit,
discarded porno mags from college kids,
Hawkeye Country leftovers.
Up brutal hills,
long runs that burn the calves,
rolled cigarettes scraping my throat,
bag cutting into my hand,
starting to rip
and orphaning a few precious nickels,
dawn still undecided
about letting me live.
Then the other side of town—
limes rotting with cilantro,
old Spanish rice and refried beans.
Aluminum cans equal nickels
for the waiting bottle,
like a cold, shallow reward.
Beemers and Volvos buzz by.
Businessmen on their way to work.
I shuffle past, unseen,
trying not to get hit by their apathy,
daylight swallowing my quiet survival.
Powerfully penned, Thomas. Excellent write with precise imagery my friend. This was raw and real brother. Appreciate you.
Damian
Much appreciated.
Another dark slice of the side of life most of us abhor and pretend isn’t there at all. It is so difficult trying to picture you there, my friend, so hard to think of anyone other than make believe movie made bums living hard, rough lives no real, educated man who writes so beautifully could possibly live among and be himself, hanging on to humanity by the slenderest thread. You show me parts of myself in these seedy climes, just another few tarifs or heists of my rent away from joining you on your morning quests. You bring tears to my tired morning eyes.
Thanks, my friend. I appreciate it.
Freaking great piece with the real life descriptions dude, tight work
Much appreciated.
“trying not to get hit by their apathy,
daylight swallowing my quiet survival.”
That right there sums up so much in this world. Identity means nothing without a trendy label to too many. And those struggling to survive, invisible. The undecided dawn was one helluva exclamation point on the situation. Another solid piece of reality