Summer
we were in west philly
and you got angry because of my friend
i thought there was something
inside of you and he was fucked up
on oxies and jack daniels reminding
me of new jersey though we had fun
watching connor all inebriated and singing
sweetly i felt
the abrasiveness in the air
finding our way out of the ghetto
wasn’t easier than usual
the lights were swinging back and forth
on market and i couldn’t keep my foot
off the pedal danger danger
we were sweaty
and you made a generous donation
i risked our lives for no good reason
i urinated in your dresser
and since it was made of plastic
the acrid smell of broken-down beer
lingered longer than necessary
i couldn’t stop talking in my sleep
reflecting some horrors
i’d never remember
1995
i didn’t know the alphabet
like my sister did
i’d rather look out the window
my face against glass
cars glimmered on the asphalt
Bella Vista
Is he sleeping now in his chair by the alley?
Is he passed out cold
with a warm beer can in his hand?
He’s in the open air where strangers walk idly
chatting drunk like him at 2am,
but not yet at the bottom of everything.
His calloused fingers. His lips bleed.
His hair turned dread. And his eyes,
oh what his eyes have seen.
Bio: Sean William Lynch is a 22-year-old poet and editor from New Jersey. He received the Frederick Douglass and Susan B. Anthony Award in 2009 for his essays on social justice. His first poetry collection, “the city of your mind” (Whirlwind Press, 2013) was praised by the poet laureate of Philadelphia, Frank Sherlock, as “visionary.” Lynch’s writing has appeared in APIARY, Poetry Ink, and numerous other publications online and in print.
It was so nice of you to leave a generous donation in her dresser and to be cognizant of your contribution. It seems as is someone may have not gotten the message clearly, but perhaps they are not overly concerned and you can just maneuver forward. If you smile congruently, they will completely understand.