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Poetry
by Nathaniel G. Moore
RUMSEY ROAD
I grew up in a city full of chipped teeth and skinned knees,
a 1984’ed city where I learned to proof read,
spit in my mouth the lubricate for dirt, blood,
and the spit of others. That city the sound of tiny
dungeons and dragon cast-iron knights in basement
stomachs, that city with the sound of shears beating down
despite rust against overgrown hedges. Bits of green
hit the concrete from neighbouring backyards.
Boys knew what stabbing looked like because of the dirty books
found in garbage bags full of hair behind the barbershop.
The alley held them tight. In the bag the magazines tanned,
as if to further perfect the centerfold to dissolve the tan-lines
tanning in the afternoon. The city taught us how to make
ourselves come and shake what we liked.
–•–
[Distillate © HA&L + Nathaniel G. Moore | {from the Greek bios} -- the course of a life.]
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