7:15 am, biking by a bus stop
He is curled heavy on the lowest step scratching his face with fingers more paw than hand. A compulsory, unconscious movement and relief nothing yielding. I am irrevocably reminded of a cat from my childhood, so old, so old that her skin was too dry to endure and she would scratch, scratch until she tore right through (seeking what peace might lie on the other side). This man's face is raw and red now and bearded from what portion I can see. The rest of him hunches against the concrete stair, his knees in torn denim splayed out in a way that makes my knees hurt, a vodka handle, not quite empty, cradled against his crotch, one hand loose around the neck. Next to him stand two remarkably clean girls, fresh, waiting for the bus. One is plugged in, music coursing in thin wires to her ears, fingers frantically swiping and flittering across a glowing screen. The other has her arms loosely crossed, and stares resolutely ahead. july 2014, copyright Sarah Hirsch |
Writing, writingA blog of mostly poems, some prose. Recent works will be added to the top, and older pieces are backdated. Please write me a note if you have any questions, etc! Archives
October 2017
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All works are original and copyright Sarah Hirsch, 2017. Please contact me directly if you would like permission to use any images or words. Thank you!
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