PROMISE

by Mather Schneider

5:42 a.m., cloud cover
low like wet wool.
The weather’s going
insane,
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.