Poem of the Month | August

Whose Hustle

I look like the homeless, in Grateful Dead
in unbrushed, in dingy coffee mug

and the same native man makes five trips
around the block selling silver and onyx,
peeking in store windows, asking me
if I’m interested

I can respect the hussle, but dont make me
yell at you about my fucking obvious lack of
pockets and purse,

what am I going to buy your stolen goods with?
where the hell am I pulling money from
sitting outside of pigpen pubs
on the grubby cement
under igneous sun?

I can’t even go back upstairs to my loft
because it’s an echo
to the trapped, of annoyance
from one wall to the next,
old smell of tacos and pico
gagging grease pans
unfinished laundry
garbage in piles
7 a.m. Sunday
no peace

all I want is to get in my car
and go to Colorado,

I don’t wanna buy your cheap jewelry, man.

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