once-were shoes, massaging the concrete
with constant soles scraping
the asphalt black,
blackened with mud, kicking
through styrofoam crushed
by passing cars. cigarette rappers
the get-high gone outta them,
cellophane that used to cover
someone’s pleasure, s***** diapers
growing next to the wild geratum—purples mixing with white
and blue plastic, broken richard’s
bottles. The street diamonds–
broken glass– glisten, feet kick
through them, once white
now muddy and cracked. Old
men in ball caps crumpled
with use, stained with panhandling sweat
in 100 degree heat, 110 humiditure,
the heat index begging for change,
“can you give me a cigarette, can you
help me work today, got any leftover lunch?”
Brown eyes, the whites long poisoned,
brown eyes with red irises, permanent color
fixed by wild irish rose—she was supposed
to be a beauty. eyes that hallucinate,
seeing and not seeing gardenias in bloom
in november by the back door of the
catholic church soap kitchen. if you’re
gonna be homeless, georgia’s a good location.
don’t have to worry much bout freezing
like in the north, don’t have to sleep
in grates like in dc. under the bridge
with a few boxes is a good spot.
feral dogpack, nomadic, wallowing
in the sand behind the funeral
home, warmed by the noon sun.
feral man pack seeking a reason why
they aren’t responsible, can’t find a job, lost
their home, ask passing strangers,
“friend can you spare a dollar?”
Melissa Kemp is a College English Instructor at Bauder College in Atlanta GA. She is a freelance writer and poet. Originally from Roanoke, VA, she has resided in Atlanta for the last five years.