The Standard Coincidences

Hungry, hurried,
telephone quarters drop
to spin at my feet.
I grew up poor.
I was taught to be kind.
There’s a fault in everything.

Hunched like Mitchum on a bender,
empty of all I know,
I take my choice of things
I find on the ground,
take a sidewalk tour
for sinister purposes.

As couples rush the casino blocks,
a streetcar tops the spine of a hill.
A squad car U-turns into traffic,
drops their snitch at an alley entrance.
My airport limo friends,
my train-track hangers-on
show no symptoms of
their costly, wastrel situation.

Stalking course confirmed,
I check my cigarette slouch
against the lighter flame,
the mirrored etch of a doorway.
When it’s dark,
I’ll duck across for a drink.
For now, music and
passersby amuse me,
oak leaves fall into
light piles of drying gold.
Moonrise is almost upon us.

R.T. Castleberry, a Pushcart Prize nominee, has work in Dissident Voice, Vita Brevis, As It Ought To Be, Trajectory, Silk Road, StepAway, and The River. Internationally, he's had poetry published in Canada, Wales, Ireland, Scotland, France, New Zealand, Portugal, India, the Philippines and Antarctica. Read other articles by R.T..