The Delivery
On hobo corner
I coughed the powdered air,
the radio news said “its a purple day”.
I could taste the sky.
inhale deep, exhale deeper
Spitting out the van window
the light green wad smacked
the hot black asphalt with a sizzle.
I know I’m sick.
The homeless man on the corner
spits to, its larger, greener, nastier.
He shoves a smelly hand at my face,
says nothing, just expects.
He looks too much like me not
to give him money. The crumpled
paper greener then both our spit
goes from hand to hand.
I hate him as he turns away
with his new money,
a face that looks like mine,
and hands that smell of dumpsters.
Finally a green light,
everyone so wanting here,
like an accusation, or a family waiting,
inhale deep exhale deeper
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