Leaning against the red brick wall,
feet pressed on the cobblestones,
filthy fingers holding lit cigarettes,
probably bought from the Exxon around the corner.
Tight, ripped jeans; worn, faded jackets;
hands caked with mud and dirt, washed
probably two weeks ago, maybe longer; and ashtray
mouths. “Y’all want tickets, or you just gonna stand there?”
I ask. A couple shake their heads,
long, greasy hair swaying slightly,
their faces illuminated only by cigarette glows,
hidden from the city lights by hair shadow.
Mar 31, 2010
Mar 31, 2010 at 4:12 PM UTC
Leaning against the red brick wall,
feet pressed on the cobblestones,
filthy fingers holding lit cigarettes,
probably bought from the Exxon around the corner.
Tight, ripped jeans; worn, faded jackets;
hands caked with mud and dirt, washed
probably two weeks ago, maybe longer; and ashtray
mouths. “Y’all want tickets, or you just gonna stand there?”
I ask. A couple shake their heads,
long, greasy hair swaying slightly,
their faces illuminated only by cigarette glows,
hidden from the city lights by hair shadow.