Editor’s note: Please excuse the formatting. Not used to posting poetry. That said, readers and subscribers are invited to submit original poetry to stephenwitt1@gmail.com.
Old Dragons
Waiting on hold for Medicaid is like staring into the frostbitten dunes of yesterday, knowing, unequivocally, that there is no future. That soldiers are bruised and hobbled, but never broken. At least not so broken that they can’t spend the necessary 45 minutes on hold, withering like sunbaked grapes on the vine. There was a time when he was larger. As large as that giant London planetree growing in the neighbor’s yard that we all secretly believe will topple onto our roof and skyrocket the insurance premiums.
He moved firm and hard through a world that whipped at him like whap, whap, whap across the knuckles and chin. Learned to run and chase around a pigskin because that was all he knew to be good in him. Man, he was fast once. You can tell, because a minute and a half into the hold music his fingers began to twitch with impatience. He used to love to run everywhere, from Marcy Avenue to Coney Island pier.
Now we’re here, old dragons lying in wait …
old dragons lying in wait …
Junius Street Station
A grassy field grows in Brownsville. Lion cubs hide and the antelope play in its long blades, bent by the cold winds in dizzying patterns of grey. It sleeps unawares of the train station lording above it or the riot of graffiti that peppers its gates
