back alley blistered
raw hands clenched, while
retching last night
into a corner,
I’ve been there.
sitting back
against the cool brick
to spit,
I tell myself
I’m young.
riding buses past
broken farms and
black dust,
remnants of a
generation,
I’ve been there.
nose on the glass,
dilapidated America
mile marker 59.
last night even,
staring up
through the ceiling
at stars I couldn’t
see. there was
a moment
in the plaster
that shook me.
I was there
at the beginning
before you,
and I was
fine.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem