Blue Devils with Black Hearts (Kensington Ave)

Imagine seeing the same
dope fiends EVERY morning.

Nodding off underneath the same railroad bridge
like a corpse covered in tombstone.
Begging for change on the same infamous
drug corners spewing the same sob stories
like preschool teachers.

(…Her eyes were two glass crystal balls
lodged in her face scrying hopeless.
She needed two quarters. I wish I could
have given her hope instead…)

Wearing the same tramp
stamps like medals of honor.
The same prostitutes that
were once daddy’s little girl.

Now they open their legs
like paychecks; like
virginity grows on trees.

Life for them is a tightrope
bowline tied on two dead-ends…