paper bag – henry

22 Jan

paper bag

i drag
my past around
in a paper bag.
a brown paper bag.
the kind of paper bag
those in the low-rent
corners of Los Angeles,
and towns of similar size,
hide bottles of cheap booze
and crushed dreams.

sometimes i sit on cement curbs
and watch airplanes fly
overhead.
policemen in beaten police cars
look up
and watch
too.

late at night
when the tv
no longer
holds any interest
i stare out the window.
across the courtyard,
on the second floor,
a lights clicks on
and a black man lights a cigarette.

there is a tree
bursting through
cracks in the asphalt,
sprinting up toward
a decadent sky.
the tree has green leaves
and thick branches.
a child stops to stare,
his lunch stuffed into
a brown paper bag.

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