Catching up and now alomst seven poems behind. An original version of a previously uploaded poem. Maybe there will be time to write today or tomorrow.
Harvest of bruised, finger-ling cigarette
wedged and bisected within the pavement fissure;
a mid-morning trove; the accidental cast-off from
the cab driver, his maimed taxi angle-parked
just this side of the river bank,
and watched by coiled eyes from defunct fire escapes.
We manually probe the slots of parking meters
for orphaned nickels and quarters, neglected coins
and the tokens that slithered freely through the cracks,
dropping like ice before spinning to a stop on the broken asphalt.
Anguished, shuffling, and digitally reading
the sticky slits of Belleville,
we gamble our necks for carelessly sunken pearls.