The Next 50 Feet

I have been down as many alleys
As I have main drags.
But I remember alley cinder
Better than I do concrete boulevards.

I remember fires
Kindled in 50 gallon drums
And needles in mud puddles.
I remember burned out garages
And wary eyes half-hidden
behind kitchen blinds
Little white baby dolls
With shorn yellow hair
Sightless eye sockets.
I remember the lust
For danger inherent
In the next 50 feet
And the bitter burn
Deep in my throat.

The CTA buses belch diesel
On Stoney Island
But in the alleys
The air stings
Of cigarettes
Cheap whiskey
And sex.

I remember the sharp crunch
Of cinder
Beneath my boot
The skittering of rats
And the whimper escaping
Torn screens
From the third floor walk-up.

From 79th Street
The Chicago Fire Department
Bone Bucket screams
Like a bereft mother
But here in the cinder alley
Is the metallic click
Of the slide
On a 9 with an extended clip.

I know these alleys
And they remember me
Because you never forget
The sights
The smells
The sounds
Of those preparing
To die.