He didn’t sleep again last night.

It could have been the shouting from above,

the hard fist of concrete under their hips,

or just the endless hum of emptiness.


One day he’s going to cross the river,

when the low tide catches the cup

of the moon on the horizon, with nothing

but a tall, rigid stick to steady him,


his money knotted safely in a bag,

and a length of blue rubber pipe for air.

From under the water’s urgent flow,

he’ll aim for that point where the fence


appears to droop wearily, where there are

trees lashed behind with dense vines.

The rattle of dogs, straining against their

rope collars, will announce his arrival.


first published in The Homestead Review, No. 36, 2016


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