James Kelley Poet Prose

Waiting

Tired fingers drummed on bound leather,
white knuckled mountains held a fire post
high, giving away his position to everyone 
that drove by. A radio hums nervously,
keeping pace with the sore jointed thrumming…
but just barely. Heavy blankets cast shadows
on the city, a place that never yawns at night.
He dusts them gently, trying to keep his vision
from blurring anymore than it already had.
He can hear the moans of the sick in the dark,
junkies buzzing from room to room trading
death among themselves.
A cop at the adjacent building boots in a
domicile parading crooked justice
down the throat of an unsuspecting coyote.
"Inmigración! ¡Al suelo! Yo puta dispararé!"
Hate echoes across the parking lot and runs
up his spine.
"I can’t wait to get out of this place." the words
generated on their own accord, and fell straight off
a cotton-mouthed tongue. 
"Where the hell is she?"
A quick avalanche of muscle drives the shifter into “D” 
and the iron cage slowly creeps a little deeper into
"el valle" 
A lazy etch of his lover meandered, caught inside a lit window.
A thumb skates over the dial button on his cellphone,
waiting for further instructions..
She looks afraid.
He finds his feet and trudges toward the door,
thinking of what she might say.
"I can’t just sit out here." 
-James Kelley 2013, All rights reserved

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