The Alley Off Thirteenth Street

A thought about hope in dark places

working there in the alley just off Thirteenth Street
I heard echoes of "Clara" amid soul-piercing sobs - 
a woman shambled over, arms glued to her sides,
empty hands holding invisible sand bags.
tear-streaked wet cheeks, still crying,
she paused, wailing
"Have you seen my Clara?"
I wanted to help her, really I did
so pathetically lost, sadly hopeless and desperate.
yet I answered the truth,
"No, I didn't"

who was this woman, or Clara, at that?

maybe a child, wandered off ages ago -

today, mother, gray, tormented, still searching...  

"Then f**k you", she yelled, shuffling away 
toward Thirteenth Street, unconcerned 

she wore just one slipper for two ashy feet.

a simple reply could have tendered new hope

of holding dear Clara

before death finally stole her

then an old sod danced an odd waltz,
legs still unsteady, he stopped there
to water the wall
swore he knew me - two soldiers in 'Nam -

but I was too young.

remarking my health must be failing

(he'd never seen me so pale,)
he suggested medicine
from the brown bag he held

he offered to hold the long ladder steady
so I wouldn't fall again like I did in Saigon.
"No!", I held firm, but we commiserated

pains and hard times since then;

Dayday and Niney, our friends,

never came back, though we saw them 

sometimes in the alley.

then Matty, my brother, stumbled away

in search of lost buddies in bottles of gin.

Tiki, so skinny but ever the beauty,
insisted we go on a date
right there in the alley,
grabbing my crotch to
punctuate

her proposition
as if words were never enough.

I offered she was quite pretty, but then

"if only I wasn't married," I lied, so she settled
for the cigarette I lit for her instead,
and wondered when work would be done
she needed the business making used condoms,

repaving the alley just off Thirteenth Street.

perched high on my ladder, I could just see

distant Broad Street
lost latex expressions of love

no longer sticking in treads of my boot

out there on that corner,

a man from The Nation selling bean pies

ignored me for days when I passed him by

finally asked me this morning if I'd like to try

the healthy delicacy he'd held high to God.

I felt blessed, accepted, he addressed me.

Rastafari, camped on the other side,

still passed out free samples of Passion and Bliss,

names he gave to incense he wished

would transform shattered glass and trash

into the heaven his dreams said might be.

I wore his fresh gifts, sticks behind each ear

perfuming the stink of stale urine and condoms

and wondered if they walked here, too,

through this alley just off Thirteenth Street.