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Howie Good |
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Police and Questions |
Snapdragon Clawhammer |
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I stagger out the door under an
armload of poems, feverish red ones, friendless gray ones, dark purple ones like the aftertaste of a scream. Women cross the street to avoid me. Cars honk in derision. Nobody asks, Hey, do you need help with those? Even the panhandler outside the 7-Eleven points and snickers, and a little girl hides her frightened face in her mother’s skirt. Later, hurled bottles will explode at my feet, there’ll be police and questions, but for now, the jocks in the high school parking lot are still scheming, and I stare as if in challenge into the hooded eyes of storefronts, nod hello to words – snapdragon, clawhammer – almost too beautiful and broken to repeat.
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