Donna Dallas

They’ve abandoned
the 7th Avenue exit of Penn Station
their essence still lingers
the sour smell
stains on the concrete from bodies
and body fluids
the ghosts of the pipe
linger in that long
dank corridor
with hypodermic needles swept
into a pile waiting to be cleaned up

They’ve gone to another spot
this one jammed with police
they are unable to shoot up
within the peace of the thousands
of people exiting up that staircase
unaffected by a needle piercing
a groin or a leg

All quiet on 7th Avenue
a vein will come back in time
and so will they

Not the cured meat
that hangs over the butcher’s counter
nor the pastel mosaic
of fake nails
glued to the storefront window
of the salon
all those candies
I walked by countless times
and ignored

Not the one hundred year old
rosary your mother should
have given us
to save us from this – had we known
when we pulled the car out of
the driveway
we’d drive ourselves
into this gorge – had we known

As I kneel down and smell
these gorgeous lilies
with the atlas heavy
on my back
so heavy
I limp
and hunch over

Had we known
I always wonder this
if we’d have left
those shiny keys
in the steering wheel
and walked the other way

For fucks sake
stop ragging on us little people
that don’t cut your paychecks
if I did I’d cut them short
you get to work every day past 9am
a lazy slacker who doesn’t give a shit about their job

I’ve worked to pay my route
there’s no other way
McDonald’s
7-11
Dunkin’ Donuts
I cleaned
waited tables

I got that paycheck
it’s mine
to spend to no end
or say fuck it and give to charity

people get a job
it helps to heal

I feel alive
like I woke from the dead
stumbled out
bone legs
grainy hands
petrified ribs
worms fall from my hair
stagger
long for wet lips
can’t recall
what sweaty palms feel like
or itchy ears
the old wives’ tales that signal
this thing
inside of us
we’ve no control over
yet yearn for it later

When signatures are scrawled
on every page marking
every year… every death
and every dollar
When checks are cut
and we amicably shake hands
our eyes glimpse
the waves under each other’s souls
Here’s a page we didn’t write into the script…
the mark of
… End …
We sit mad
with fear in the hopes
we did the right thing
although we were doing the right thing
yet it wasn’t quite right
not exact
but what is exact and perfect and so
magnificent that we couldn’t get to?
Nothing
will ever compare to your solid
and strong body
holding me in the dead of night while I cried
of a fear
that I only now
understand as regret
back then
those nights wasted
thinking it will always be