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Sliding to the First day
It is summer,
and the umbrella men
are selling hotdogs.
A good-looking priest
enters Saint Pat's,
gangly young ladies giggle,
make the sign of the cross.
Thursday is AllYouCanEat pizza day
the joint will be too crowded, too poky,
the pizza rushed out, slapped and pasted.
Office workers, those that take medicinal weed,
come flocking from the second floors
of nowhere,
shoulder to shoulder,
they huddle to spread
petty scandals and rumors,
then return to stare at desktop computer games.
Porn is the privilege of the underachievers.
Downtown is slip-sliding,
it used to be a place to be noticed,
a sex-gated area for outdoor passions.
Now the females
hold the hem of their skirts down,
and not because of the wind.
Dope is in the air.
Thieves scrabble and push,
dazed by the easy abundance.
Tourists duck and shelter
under dead teachers' desktops.
Come December,
the glass ball will hang by a thin fingertip.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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