Oct/Nov 2006 Poetry


by Bob Bradshaw

Photo by Jim Gourley


Homicides here are more common
than birthdays. Again we have
the block cordoned off, the victim
facedown in the street.
Neighbors shrug as officers
interview them. "A man
is run over in mid day," my partner
moans, "and no one sees or hears
a thing. We shouldn't be scraping
young men off the streets
like gum." Maybe no one wants
to end up like him, I say.
The streets lights keep changing.
The hookers keep moving farther
down the street. A mother
looks down from a window, cracked
like the windshield of that
Cadillac parked a block away. It
slowly pulls away as I stare
in its direction, its fins
slicing the air.


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