bastard son

by Ross Vassilev

I'm the rag you
step on
in the gutter
of a really long
rain
when the sky
cries aloud
for the quiet side
of Jim Morrison
I'm the wind
chimes at night
I'm the bastard son
hung out to dry
in the unGodly
world of Manhattan
with
the homeless
the dog shit
and the insane
I'm the ice cream
truck
broken-down
on a summer
street with all the
vanilla melting
and the
neighborhood
kids
are shit outta luck.