Moseying peaceful-like down True Blue Street
she hadn’t noticed the betrayal truck run a red
and careen straight for her, looming up behind
like manifest destiny on speed, flattening her act
to a sidewalk shadow of its former juicy self.
The blues were true alright and a long
while in the full deep wail and moan
of their gradual passing into this place
where streets go sign-less, where
savvy old souls feel their way along
step by hand-to-mouth step, eyes
ungummed and open, glances surgical,
testy, hopelessly amused. Leather was
the thing here, soft and thick and tough,
deliveries cut down to messenger-bike size,
trust dispensed cup by hot cautious cup.
Somehow she fit right in, sipping
with the rest of them, leaning against
chain-link barriers, toeing the line at ER,
fashioning rain-gear from cardboard.
Copyright 2016, Diane Gage
Diane Gage dwells in the American portion of the SoCal/Baja metroplex, not far from the border. Recent publications include poems in City Works Press: Sunshine Noir II, Mary: A Journal of New Writing and in an artist’s book by Bhavna Mehta featured in a recent San Diego art exhibit.