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stacy-del-galloPoems
I walk down Dillon street, sun baking cement and aging wooden doors. No grass grows in this mania of row homes and crowded restaurants save the few brave weeds peeking out of cracks in the sidewalk. Father Kolbe School: stands as a rose growing in the midst of this barren bar-studded desert. Dozens of children play kickball in its roped off intersection: theirs for thirty minutes a day; laughter of future senators and junkies clad in clean pressed blouses and plaid jackets. In these moments they can shriek and relax, so few years before they sweat over non-sufficient funds and that shaky feeling that comes from the ache of more; more money more coffee more time. I should know, my forehead is often soaked to the bone.
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Jul 13, 2010
Jul 13, 2010 at 9:46 AM UTC
Soaked
I walk down Dillon street, sun baking cement and aging wooden doors. No grass grows in this mania of row homes and crowded restaurants save the few brave weeds peeking out of cracks in the sidewalk. Father Kolbe School: stands as a rose growing in the midst of this barren bar-studded desert. Dozens of children play kickball in its roped off intersection: theirs for thirty minutes a day; laughter of future senators and junkies clad in clean pressed blouses and plaid jackets. In these moments they can shriek and relax, so few years before they sweat over non-sufficient funds and that shaky feeling that comes from the ache of more; more money more coffee more time. I should know, my forehead is often soaked to the bone.
stacy-del-gallo
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stacy-del-gallo
Jul 13, 2010
Jul 13, 2010 at 9:46 AM UTC
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