R.C. EDRINGTON

Heroin #158

I had intended this
to be a love poem,
Summer
& it could have been

had you not crashed
into the bedroom
like some Gulf War vet
screaming as though
a grenade had just
exploded in your head
& flashed the latest
abcess on your arm
like some botched tattoo

so now
instead of a love poem
I once again toss
the pen & page aside
for a clean syringe
& shoot you up
between your
torn fish-net stockings
& purpled painted
toenails


Bridget

late nite nicotine
jet black coffee
fueled by
shots of Jim Beam
& the worn radio plays
the way worn radios
always seem to play
static & soft
cool jazz tinged by
the solo sobs
of a pawned saxophone
in this stale
& dusty hotel room

& there is nothing
on my mind as
cigarette smoke
curls & drifts like
some wayward ghost
out this open window
& down into
the unlit alley

& somewhere lost
amidst the dumpsters
amidst the piss
& puke soaked
cardboard boxes
amidst the spent
wine bottles
cracked and bleeding
on the asphalt like
the homeless flesh
that once sucked them
into emptiness

there is a rose
straining its way
up through
the torn membrane
of a patch of soil
in desire of dawn
& I only need
to close my tired
bloodshot eyes
& listen in faith
to know it's there
a faith
I once wasted on you


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2005 Underground Voices