by Adrian Frey
Susquehanna Valley Suite
1.
Sunset’s pink brow settled over East Main Street,
A roadside sign blinked announcing a new weed store,
The Spa on top of the Thai restaurant,
Busted a week ago for prostitution,
Even the changes in a place like this are dull.
Like the cracks on my windshield,
Slivers of moonlight,
Predictable where they’re going as the birds,
Before winter sets in.
Garbage piles up in front of the townhouses,
There the vanity of consumptions seeps,
Nothing new to be known here,
Cycles in and out,
The addiction,
To place and to time.
A young girl huffs and puffs on her bike,
Like the man huffing paint in front of the Bryne,
Two highs that can’t meet anywhere near a middle,
His hair is greasy and thin,
His jacket is tattered and a burnt out green,
A cucumber rotting on the shelf,
An old man hands him a five dollar bill,
From a better time.
2.
If the past is not annulled,
If the past is rather changed,
Dances continue,
In small arguments and empty wrappers in the glovebox.
And the subtle change of color on the leaves during early September,
And the hospital torment of fluorescent lights,
And teal tiles,
And the gentle flow of the Chenango after an hour of rain,
And the broken bottles in the shower
The scattered stars above and below a hasty move in during the night,
And the young women at the concession stand,
Who hope to be somewhere else soon
Their past flows to the present,
In a ditch with fallen leaves.
Utica Street Blues
A deep voice carries across the street,
The Sprite bottle rolls by my feet
And bumps into the snow covered curb.
An old GMC in the driveway,
The same my high school ex-girlfriend drove.
Two toddler sized folding chairs stacked
The scaffolding of age.
A reminder of a time before
The graves sunk deep into my skin
And the boys in the county ring told me to write the check.
So I robbed the widow
Stole the horse and ran.
I shall not return,
How good God still is I thought
That I have this knife between my teeth
And timber rattler meat.
****