Uptown is Dead
In the ripe morning, I used to run down Argyle,
unfastened coat ballooning at my ankles.
Nobody really stares around here.
I’d sweat cold below the platform heat lamp,
looking over the round-gutted corner cops,
the bicycle deliverymen with backstrap speakers,
and the pigeons’ pendular dive between rooftops.
I was another dense husk on the evening train,
and when it spat me into the fat plum evening
I smoked on the street with everyone else.
My pocketed fists counted laundry quarters,
good for a hot bellyful of pork-swollen bread.
Gerald on the corner used to eye my paper bag;
I’d tear buns in two, like kids sharing sandwiches.
Now I don’t need to check out the corner to know
Gerald isn’t around.
I’m Hana, a Junior English major and a tutor at the Writing Center. I look forward to sharing and enjoying others’ work at our weekly Writer’s Guild meetings. I really appreciate how The Orange Couch encourages writers to connect within our community, particularly during this time of disconnect. I’m grateful to participate!