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Son of Cement |
He descends down the stairs of the tattered tan
building as if his feet are on a course to breech
rebirth. A mere chip pounds the pavement
of an old block he grew from.
He projects an attitude as bold as the thick-linked
chain around his neck for all to see. He feigns an
ego so big the wave from it could help the fishermen,
on the edge of town, propel their boats.
His shoulders; a show of pride as he swaggers
forward in uneven stomp-steps his gaze darts
quickly left, then right, then left again as if
somewhere along this street, in a blanket of half-light.
Somewhere, lounging on a café window-sill or
circling like a moth around a street lamp or
flung along the grit of the curb near the corner,
he could find that long lost piece of himself.
copyright 2014
Beverly M.
Collins |
