Get Your Red Hots

Get Your Red Hots

By day I dare the patchwork train, the blue, the red, the black
Color of the moving street--sound and glass and track,
Rattlescreeching somewhere. Spit me on this place so stone:
Cemetery of the living where it's death to be alone.
In a world that worships gold I'm priest of pocketsfull,
Threads and cameras and "you'll see, I've got pull;"
You claw to reach the top of your personal ladder
And, baby, what the rest got doesn't really matter.

We are worshipping the wrong gods and no one sees!
I have touched you but you won't touch me!
If I shake my fist, nobody cares!
And if I love you, you won't dare!

Like I said, I'm here ten hours with what you're needing,
And if not, I got something close. Don't need reading--
It's all lined up here. And, okay, it's not truth, it's not eternity--
It's street food, man, here in this effing city.
Midnight or bad weather rings my closing bell,
Roll the wrappers and the knishes to their lonely cell;
Switch off the ipod and the boombox and the light.
Silent sounds surround me in surrender to the night.

Get Your Red Hots by Judy Schilling




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