Day: July 6, 2023

6:00 a.m., sunday, april 4, 20046:00 a.m., sunday, april 4, 2004

one stray brown dog half-heartedly barks,
strays sideways into the lot where the old house was torn down last week.
beyond the dog, a gray cat scampers up the trunk of a tree just beginning to leaf.
on the freeway that rights its way through the neighborhood,
a car pulls over to a halt, waits, then pulls back into the light traffic,
accelerating to speed.

the sky is grey with low, wet clouds. rain stains the streets.
mud, gravel, and small boulders litter the streets
from how hard it rained the night before last.

morning birds are singing.
the cocks the cockfighters keep crow their doodly cock-song.

next door to a boarded-up house, a house displays on its screen door
the yellow ribbon that means someone is away at the war.
across the street and down a block, a yard sports campaign posters,
though the election is seven months off. the posters are blue, white, and red.
in the street, parked by the curb, a car with tinted windows starts its engine.

two men pass on the sidewalk. one says, good morning, but doesn’t smile.
the other says nothing, spits once for jesus, once for mary,
and once to keep the devil away.

(Copyright 2004, 2023 by Tetman Callis.)

morning in the neighborhoodmorning in the neighborhood

odors of toast and marijuana, bacon and tobacco
pissed-out beer and puked-up rum
apple and plum trees in full bloom

perfumed women and old spicy men
waiting on the bus’s black-sooted exhaust and metallic smell of motor oil

whiff of plastic burning, of coriander, chile verde and mace
axle-grease and antifreeze and morning in the neighborhood

(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)

“If there is only one death, there are more ways of its reaching us than there are days for us to live.” – Guy de Maupassant, “Our Letters” (trans. McMaster, et al.)