This morning's sun
casts off illumination
without warmth,
lighting the way for
three drunks snarling
traffic.
A symphony of horns, a near miss,
bundled under hoods at 9:17 A.M.,
they ford the river of commuters
to the liquor store, friendly
on the opposite shore -
a bastion - the real social service
in this neighborhood for the last
couple of generations.
You remember Crazy Eddie
in the same crosswalk
bobbing and weaving,
wet-brained,
boxing cars
back in the mid-70's.
They say it's going down to zero tonight,
the first true cold one,
and the three of you
staggering and swaddled toddlers,
are in need of better friends.
casts off illumination
without warmth,
lighting the way for
three drunks snarling
traffic.
A symphony of horns, a near miss,
bundled under hoods at 9:17 A.M.,
they ford the river of commuters
to the liquor store, friendly
on the opposite shore -
a bastion - the real social service
in this neighborhood for the last
couple of generations.
You remember Crazy Eddie
in the same crosswalk
bobbing and weaving,
wet-brained,
boxing cars
back in the mid-70's.
They say it's going down to zero tonight,
the first true cold one,
and the three of you
staggering and swaddled toddlers,
are in need of better friends.
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