Читать книгу The Underground Man - Jasen Sousa - Страница 5

Consecutive days, a constant spitting

in the sky that doesn’t allow me to open my eyes

completely. I have viewed the splendidness and sliminess

of the city through puddles littered

with natural and human litter.

Routine continues, "have to be”

at places that cause knots in my stomach like

old sneaker laces. Stuck, like spots on the sidewalk. Stuck

to the bills and the poor souls who mail them out. I write

letters to my neighborhood friend

in the Billerica House of Corrections and wonder

as I lick the envelope

who is more free?

Wasted potential, and the police officer

who told me A Bronx Tale

is his favorite movie of all time. When does,

"what we want to be when we grow up,”

change to, "what we must do to be an adult.” There was nothing better

than playground days and no scheduled time to be home.

Crooked picture frame, hanging

underneath a dead clock and insects that contort

inside fluorescent light fixtures. A blinking light on my office phone

and the messages I haven't heard because I already know their content.

Disconnect…