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Poetry/Fiction/Essays/etc.

 

 

 

 

Urban Camping

The middle of the night. One dark
bar or another. I stumble

into the alley, trail .
my black poisoned soul

like a fancy handbag.

All night I drank

vulnerably, let

the alcohol shrink me

to a convenient

take-home size, thought

he would tuck me

under that hulky arm, save me

for later.

The unexpected walks
around the corner
with him, skin-tight
leopard print pants
short lace shirt

gaudy combination of
makeup and

hairspray and

baubles. She oozes
ease, looks at him

like the sure thing

she is. He looks at me
like nothing,

slips into a taxi

with her.

I try to leave

my misery in the back
alley, with the urine
the vomit and the live-
ins, but it is picked
over, and up,

by warm wiry arms
that stroke coax force
it back down

my throat _

into the pit

of me, epitome

of wasted

hasty love.

3 Choking on salt

I tumble down

city streets, straight

as a wild river, trickling
hard, ever pulsing
towards someone or
away from another,
and the night

becomes cold
stretchable

time.

By Pamela Lester

 

 

 

 

 

January 15, 2003

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