To start the year, three days in, a poem. Not sure if I'm going to put more of my work out here this year. That said, where else is my work going? Not like I've got people begging to publish my work or I'm submitting it anywhere.
From the streets of the under served
On a neglected street on the west side of Columbus
in the shadow of a pile of used tires
there is a brick on the ground
Next to it is a used yellowed condom
and I ask myself
"Is this why we have a casino now?"
Is this why a dormant perpetually losing sports team
gets millions of slot machine revenue
While there is a pothole in my alley
deep enough to bury a racehorse
At 1:25AM on new year's day
there is random gunfire
snapping out of my son's mouth
in the form of episodes of the Wonderpets
and a few verses of happy birthday
It is not my birthday for another six months
It is not his eleventh birthday until exactly nine months from this moment
And I'm trying to determine the difference between
visits and units of service from my insurance company
for his occupational therapies
I have my own emotional cliff to cling to
The raise a congressman just voted himself
could pay half of my son's treatment for a year
There are fireworks exploding in the backyard
of the boarded up house on the corner
a foreclosed building is a magnet for gunpowder
a broken fence a bed for empty spray paint cans
My neighborhood is not vibrant
It is barely sustaining itself amidst the evicted bedbugs who once resided in couches on the lawn next to my house
I can walk to play roulette
but cannot to get a cup of coffee and wi-fi
But i can find an old tire,
tie it to a tree in my front yard
Call it a theme park
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