Inner City
by Odin Roark

“Momma, can I have a…”
“I’m running late.
Maybe tonight.”

“Daddy can we go to…”
“Maybe when I come visit this week-end.”

Daily door shut.
Daily silence.

“Charlie, can I hold you tight?”
Woof Woof, Woof Woof.

How goes it?
So goes it.
Video games before lunch.
Stick ball around three.
Cartoons run into supper.
Bologna and spam on mayo spread toast.
Little Wonder Bread meatballs for Charlie.
Flip on the cop shows…solitary.

The day behind me.
Clocks tick.
Faucets drip.
Toilet keeps running.

Fire escape peep hole adventures.
NR rated neighborhood stories.
Red lights come on.
Spoke-wheels glitter through their turf.
Dudes sportin’ funny fur coats on hot summer nights.
Ice pick heels clickin’ city-slave songs.
Beer bottle hail storms.
Shard-sparkling drifts in gutters once flowing.
Just another day.
Just another night.

Grandma saunters in,
Complains of 3-flight routine,
“Bannister’s loose,” she says,
“Careful, or gonna break your butt one day.”
I says, “You makin’ fun?”
She says, “No, grandma just thinkin sad thoughts.
“C’mer, child,” she says. “You okay?”

Grandma’s eyes are palm trees and sunsets,
Tree huts and swimmin’ holes,
Wooded trails with Charlie a-runnin’,
Love without rules,
Love without boundaries.

“Can I have a hug, Grandma?

“Can I?”