by Mather Schneider

5:42 a.m., cloud cover
low like wet wool.
The weather’s going
neighbors lined up,
tawny silhouettes watching
the sunrise,
except for the skinny guy in #8
sitting on his military-made bed
rolling the joints for the
day, all
so similar.

The hum of air conditioners, radios
and tvs, wackos
talking to themselves, nobody
around here has a job,
just crazy money and SSI
and selling food stamps
for beer-cash.

Cheap rent under
the same dumb sky
as the golden mansions in the
foothills, same hidden
moon, same promise
of death.

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4 Responses to PROMISE

  1. Joyce Juzwik says:

    In the end, it doesn’t matter what you did or didn’t have. In the end, we are all the same. Nice and gritty slice of life across the tracks.

  2. Thanks Joyce, and thanks Ross, good to have you back!

  3. db cox says:

    like this one by good ol’ Mather Schneider

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