I got lost for all of my life for about a half an hour
trying to find the city library
and found myself at the cruel intersection
of Saint Utah Street and Central Avenue; a hooker brunette
in Salvador Dali mascara and shiny mauve hot pants
glared at me in an accusingly and inviting way
on the southeast corner and the mountains behind her
looked like they were gritting disgusted teeth;
diagonally across the way from her
I watched a tall, filthy brown quilt
shuffle unsteadily at Jim Beam miles per hour
along a chain link fence that shivered in the wind we had;
shivered in the wind we had, did that chain link fence
and so goddammit did I. I lost the library
and I’d never even been there. Was supposed to be there
for a dear friend’s book release and at this point
I was already late beyond belief
and it was already 4:75 pm in the afternoon
and the Sun was already tired of watching me and you and us
and the Sun wasn't yellow anymore; there's a moment
high up in the late afternoon when the Sun's true color
can be seen, but only by people who just died or who are currently dying
or who are currently killing somebody else
and at four thousand pm in the afternoon
the Sun was already clocking out and ducking behind the hills on the horizon
and that’s when horror was; that’s when revulsion was truly my why;
that’s when the light turned green
and I stopped daydreaming
and that’s when the gas was pressed on by my foot;
stinking diesel smell creeping in the car
through the slit where I cracked the window
like the stink of the last swallow of Bud Light
in the red solo cup on the back steps
the morning after the party that began that raged that never ended
and that’s when I spied a different hooker
a block away in some other direction,
this one with dirty blonde hair
and makeup so awfully smeared
it looked like her face was trying to float away from her
and she was staggering down the street arms thrust out
in front of her shaking something off her hands,
maybe prayers that hurt when they touched her skin
and she was hysterically sobbing
and I came within an inch
of hitting the rear bumper
of the tow truck in front of me
because her tears interested me
but also made me feel guilty
for my good fortunes
and also for first noticing her body
first of first of first of all:
did you know there’s an angel you can pray to
who watches over plastic bags full of shit caught up in chain link fences?
Did you know there’s an angel whose job is to listen
to the prayers of people who get lost in the bad parts of cities,
who suddenly find themselves being spoken to by pimps at red lights?
Do you happen to know the name of the angel
who records in that big, black, falling apart
and dusty library book of life
the first time each of us sees the color red?
Can you get a hold of her for me?
trying to find the city library
and found myself at the cruel intersection
of Saint Utah Street and Central Avenue; a hooker brunette
in Salvador Dali mascara and shiny mauve hot pants
glared at me in an accusingly and inviting way
on the southeast corner and the mountains behind her
looked like they were gritting disgusted teeth;
diagonally across the way from her
I watched a tall, filthy brown quilt
shuffle unsteadily at Jim Beam miles per hour
along a chain link fence that shivered in the wind we had;
shivered in the wind we had, did that chain link fence
and so goddammit did I. I lost the library
and I’d never even been there. Was supposed to be there
for a dear friend’s book release and at this point
I was already late beyond belief
and it was already 4:75 pm in the afternoon
and the Sun was already tired of watching me and you and us
and the Sun wasn't yellow anymore; there's a moment
high up in the late afternoon when the Sun's true color
can be seen, but only by people who just died or who are currently dying
or who are currently killing somebody else
and at four thousand pm in the afternoon
the Sun was already clocking out and ducking behind the hills on the horizon
and that’s when horror was; that’s when revulsion was truly my why;
that’s when the light turned green
and I stopped daydreaming
and that’s when the gas was pressed on by my foot;
stinking diesel smell creeping in the car
through the slit where I cracked the window
like the stink of the last swallow of Bud Light
in the red solo cup on the back steps
the morning after the party that began that raged that never ended
and that’s when I spied a different hooker
a block away in some other direction,
this one with dirty blonde hair
and makeup so awfully smeared
it looked like her face was trying to float away from her
and she was staggering down the street arms thrust out
in front of her shaking something off her hands,
maybe prayers that hurt when they touched her skin
and she was hysterically sobbing
and I came within an inch
of hitting the rear bumper
of the tow truck in front of me
because her tears interested me
but also made me feel guilty
for my good fortunes
and also for first noticing her body
first of first of first of all:
did you know there’s an angel you can pray to
who watches over plastic bags full of shit caught up in chain link fences?
Did you know there’s an angel whose job is to listen
to the prayers of people who get lost in the bad parts of cities,
who suddenly find themselves being spoken to by pimps at red lights?
Do you happen to know the name of the angel
who records in that big, black, falling apart
and dusty library book of life
the first time each of us sees the color red?
Can you get a hold of her for me?
Rich Boucher resides in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Rich’s poems have appeared in The Nervous Breakdown, Eighteen Seventy, Menacing Hedge, Drunk Monkeys, Pink Disco and Cultural Weekly, among others. Rich serves as Associate Editor for the online literary magazine BOMBFIRE. He is the author of All Of This Candy Belongs To Me, a collection of poems published by Jules’ Poetry Playhouse Publications. Peep richboucher.bandcamp.com for more. He loves his life with his love Leann and their sweet cat Callie.
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