By the Waterfront
Smell of something burning
in the empty parking lot
by the waterfront.
Winter always smells like that.
union men were probably killed where I’m standing no more than fifty years ago,
when my father was a child and the gangsters ruled this city,
these parts especially.
It’s interesting to think of what else might have happened before that.
but all that’s here is winter wind blowing in my face and memories.
All that action happened here,
so the girl and I could get a comforter spread
at Ikea.
I can almost hear their ghosts
crying,
like a veteran, dying of cancer in an old age home
pissing himself because the idiot kid making ten bucks an hour
was late to work.
crying out,
I fought for this?
The sky is on fire a lot earlier than I’d like it to be.
Junkies push shopping carts while wearing hooded sweatshirts covered by jean jackets
to stay warm.
the skin on their bare hands caked and cracked; souls worn out and blistered,
resigned to working for minimum wage for survival,
the way a dog knows it will get beat before supper.
what am I doing here?
what am I doing here?
I got a lamp.
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