Pritchard Park

Sitting with Sketti & the memory of the rise

Are you my momma!

I’m looking for a good home.

I’m house broken honest.

Said with bright eyes under a dirty face that bore upward unloading everything on tourists passing by.

Torn white paper upon which THAT is written lain bare between the backpack & a pile of spilled out paint pens.

Don’t step on that!

Ahh man now look what you done.

We’re all stacked up leaning our backs into the chain link fence with July sun soaking the skin like Diogenes.

Drawing our madness on the pavement or writing our names on little bricks of fame everyone walks on.

I don’t know where they go at night we all seem to gather here at a street across from the park where the electrical boxes controlling the walking lights are next to a bus stop.

In the dim soft mornings you could see us shambling down the rise dragging our feet carrying our worn out highs from the night time.

As if the world itself moved us instead of us moving inside it. A great wailing sadness in the atmospheric haze that comes along with looking at objects in the distance.

In between the towering buildings we slide off to shoot whatever dope was given us for the trade of a JVL speaker stolen from an upstanding citizens motorcade.

That’s what Prichard parks like.