Another Day On The Streets by David Spicer

That night we slept in the hot-wired Buick
about a mile from a cemetery. The music
of bagpipes awoke us, so we watched
the procession march to the Russian
surgeon’s grave. In the copper-colored
Spring morning, women wore black
smocks and men carried wooden suitcases,
climbing the hill like tired porcupines.
You clung to me, and my knees shook.
We left, dusk hours away, yellow smoke
our guide to The Long Gone Café. You
wanted biscuits with melted butter and
gravy, and the froth of latte to sip
while reading Marx. No more surprises,
you muttered–I agreed–no more
acrobats, no more postmarks from hell.

David Spicer

David Spicer has had poems accepted by or published in The American Poetry Review, Ploughshares, Reed Magazine, Circle Show, Slim Volume, Yellow Mama, Jersey Devil Press, Bad Acid Laboratories, Inc., The Kitchen Poet, and elsewhere. He is the author of one full-length collection and four chapbooks, is the former editor of raccoon, Outlaw, and Ion Books, and lives in Memphis, Tennessee.

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