SID’S SONG July 6, 1987
Body and armchair, a fetal embrace;
mind drifts with music to a far-away place. Tepid breeze whispers through open window; steady, shallow breathing; prostitute’s bellow. Dusk yawns over city; humid air, languid, still; sleep escapes, stay awake, swallow another pill.
Neon lights flicker, sirens scream by; not far, a poor bastard lies waiting to die. Fires rage, rats scuttle, cats howl, children cry; dogs yapping, derelicts hacking, streetcars rattling, trees sigh. Heroin eyes; purple, haze-coloured vision; downtown core, seething roach-infested prison.
Streets stink, cannot think, feet blister, skin peels; strain to distinguish what imagined, dreamt or real. Fetid heat, constant thirst; lover dead, fear the worst. Hole in arm, needle in hand, pain all gone; where’s the band? Fever breaks in sunshine land; Sid will take his final stand.
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Poem from Eden Refugee by Christine Bode Reprinted by permission of Christine Bode |