avenue A

by Lynne Hayes

sitting on this gray step
worn old from life,
i see the world at its finest.

dog on a chain hating
his sports coat wearing owner
who calls his wife honey,
keeps a blonde on call
because her child must eat,
and the thrill is
most definitely not gone.

boy across the way
walks likes he’s ninety
calling his baby's momma
a whore,
and i see him hustling
on a gang controlled corner,
shot stone cold dead
within ten.

rising up,
i have seen enough
to wonder why
the old time singers lied.

things always remain
the same.