Wednesday, August 14, 2013


The sun-baked, delivery boy on a beat up bike
Blazing down busy, one-way streets
Ignoring every traffic rule and sign
Cutting off the lady cursing him through clenched teeth
Jumping curbs so food slops on carton tops
Swearing as he climbs the stairs of city walk-ups
Finally, huffs at your door on the fifth floor
With a pain in his chest
Because you’re passed out, piss drunk on the couch
Too far gone to hear him knocking
So all you’ll get is the angry message he left
Found crusted on your front door.


1 comment:

Mom said...

Glad to see your new postings. Talent should not be left on a pillow of tears.