Waiting Out the Day

Folks in the neighborhood

sit sweating, squished together

on front steps, front stoops,

sippin’ lemonades or PBR

tall boys–too cool–to sit,

slump against the walls

or spin b-balls

or throw out dope flows,

crump against the rhythm–

and I drift by, watching them–

posing for a perpetual family portrait.


I remember the folks

in the old neighborhood

who’d sit and sweat and swat flies,

on their multicolored multi-rusted

antique iron patio chairs,

on cracked up concrete.

Still sippin’ lemonade or

somethin’ stronger, and

hummin’ a tune, Elvis or

the Beatles maybe, tappin’ a foot,

waitin’ out the day till supper.


Things are louder, now.

But it’s pretty much the same.


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