We used to hit the corners
tight and on the inside.
Stand out in the rain
and wait for the sunlight
to filter down to us
from between the buildings.
Deep in the alleyways,
we knew places
where the sun never touched.
Hidden, gutter slums
that never saw a green thing.
We used to breathe
diesel clouds
and listen to the revving
of the big engines.
Air brakes squeak,
hiss and release,
as they trundle by us.
Nothing sparkles,
and nothing shines,
at least
not anything that lives here.
Occasionally,
something from uptown
would roll past,
and we would all stop and stare.
A rare unicorn
on our corner.
Quarter water summer.
Slow burn pavement games
that always cost money
no one ever had.
Paper bag princes,
brown liquor robber barons,
and slow junkies
always on the nod.
Everyone either high,
broke, or invisible.
We preferred the latter,
never stepping into
the stray lines of sunlight
that would sweep down Hope Street
and blaze off the windows
like some kind of crazy searchlight.
At night,
we would make our way
to the roof of Paul’s building.
Our quiet corner of hope
was a lit city skyline,
where Gideon would tell us stories
of the way it was
back in the ‘80s.
Star light.
City light.
It all comes to us
before we find our beds
and sleep on hope
until morning.
We might struggle through the world,
but we will always have
a place on the corner of Hope
to call home.
DJR – 2023
