Potter St.
It is better to get kisses and hugs
but a long time ago she lost her soul to drugs.
Now she sits on my stoop, shootin up
as if she’s never even heard of good luck.
Fuck.
‘Cause I’m a silly white girl who just moved in
and I can’t even pretend to know where to begin.
So I drag my feet up the road
praying it’ll take a thousand years to get home
—and maybe by then she’ll have moved on.
No,
with each step that needle goes in, in, in
aahhhhh
“Excuse me…”
“Sorry.”
She walks away.
I close my eyes and pray, “God-damn!”
As I kick another
syringe off our steps.
by Maggie Myers
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